


A Means to an End

by murderousfiligree



Series: Drowning Lessons [2]
Category: Hunter X Hunter
Genre: Angst, Child Abuse, Emotional Abuse, F/M, Family Dynamics, Gen, Hisoillu is there but not the focus, Illumi Origin Story, Implied murder of people who probably don't deserve it, Implied rape of a child, Kikyo Backstory, Kikyo POV, M/M, Miscarriage, Murder of people who deserve it, Past Sex Trafficking, Physical Abuse, Pre-Canon, Rape of a woman, Sexual Assault of a child, it is NOT wank material. thanks, this is a serious fic which deals with serious topics
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-05
Updated: 2020-09-09
Packaged: 2021-03-06 00:14:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 22,880
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25734154
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/murderousfiligree/pseuds/murderousfiligree
Summary: She wanted her sons to be swift and deadly, invulnerable to those who would harm them. By the time she sees her husband for what he really is, it’s too late for Illumi.
Relationships: Hisoka/Illumi Zoldyck, Illumi Zoldyck & Kikyou Zoldyck, Kikyou Zoldyck & Silva Zoldyck, Kikyou Zoldyck/Silva Zoldyck
Series: Drowning Lessons [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1866727
Comments: 76
Kudos: 301





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> **This fic is trigger heavy so please read the tags.**
> 
> If you’ve ever asked yourself “Why were there five year gaps between Kikyo’s first two births, and only one year gaps between her last three births?” or “Why does Kikyo wear a visor?” or “Why does Illumi seem so much more screwed up compared to the other Zoldyck children?” this fic has answers, and I can guarantee you aren’t going to like them.
> 
> This is a Kikyo POV story, and Kikyo has some archaic ideas about gender roles and pregnancy. As I bi trans man, I assure you her attitudes do not reflect mine.
> 
> Though most of this fic takes place chronologically before [Kiss and Control](https://archiveofourown.org/works/21661810?view_full_work=true), I think the narrative flows more naturally if you read K&C first (this is an artifact of me writing K&C nearly a year ago, more than deliberate planning). I will warn they are quite different in tone—namely, there’s no smut in this one, and very little romance. I repeat: **THERE IS NO SMUT IN THIS FIC**. If angst is not your jam, hit that back button.
> 
> I’ll add that this is an attempt to explain Kikyo’s actions, not excuse them. Her abuse of her children (and Illumi’s subsequent abuse of Killua) is not excusable; “woobifying” villains is boring. I’m not about that life. 
> 
> Anyway, I put a lot into this. I hope yall enjoy.
> 
> [ Obligatory title song link. ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6oMFMRv5c3o)

_  
How they awaited him, those little deaths!  
_ _They waited like sweethearts. They excited him.  
_ _And we, too, had a relationship—  
_ _Tight wires between us,  
_ _Pegs too deep to uproot, and a mind like a ring  
_ _Sliding shut on some quick thing,  
_ _The constriction killing me also._

—Sylvia Plath, “The Rabbit Catcher”

The tile was cold beneath her feet. 

Even in the dark, she could make out patterns in the granite: dim wisps of gray against black, smoke behind a veil of glass. She let her eyes rove upwards, searching for something to distract her from the twinge in her belly. There was a large window a few meters ahead, but the day had been overcast, and she could see no stars. Beneath the window, a white tub stood on legs which she knew to be gilded with gold, though all looked gray in the gloom. 

Another jolt ripped through her abdomen. She cried out, her thin voice amplified by the cavernous washroom. She could feel dampness between her legs, and as she stumbled to the toilet, pulling her underwear about her knees, the stain she found there seemed even blacker than the night.  
  
Horror unfurled within her, beating gnarled wings against her chest. 

Miscarriages were something that happened to older women. She was only nineteen, the picture of health, ten weeks pregnant with her second child. Surely there was another explanation for the blood, for the pain gripping her pelvis like a vice. Her baby was going to be fine. 

There was a low _plunk_ of something falling into the toilet, and the image of an impossible infant, small enough to fit in her palm, came suddenly to mind; she saw her child drowning in a pool of water a few inches deep, in a place meant for nothing better than waste. Kikyo Zoldyck had not wanted to wake her husband, but she could no longer contain the scream bubbling up in her throat.

Silva was at the door in an instant. He flicked on the washroom light and she shut her eyes against it, her shriek melting into sobs. 

"Kikyo?" His voice was low and gentle. "What happened?" 

She slipped off her ruined underwear, holding them aloft; the black stain was reddish brown in the light. "Look," she said. 

Her husband's face grew grim. She could hear Illumi crying from the next room, evidently roused by the commotion. More than anything she wanted to hold him close, or at least to feel his hand grasp hers through the bars of his crib, proof of his vitality. But the pain was worsening, and blood still dripped into the water beneath her.

"I'll get the doctor," said Silva. "Do you need..." He fumbled for the word. "Supplies?" 

"There are pads beneath the sink," she said quietly. "And painkillers in the kitchen." 

He fished out the package of pads and handed her the whole thing, then vanished into the darkness of the doorway. Despite the thick stone wall between the bedroom and the nursery, Illumi's cries were clear and keening. He hadn't cried like this in months; gradually he'd stopped, since he gained neither attention nor comfort for his efforts. She'd tried to reward his silence instead, scooping him up and kissing him when he hushed—but since Silva discouraged it, she’d stopped that, too. 

After an interminable interval, her husband reappeared with a small bottle in his hand and the doctor in tow. The latter was a gray-haired, bespectacled man, still dressed in his bedclothes. She felt exposed before him, her nightgown hiked up to her waist, her legs bare; it was nothing he hadn't seen before (the man had delivered Illumi, after all) but she'd never much liked him, and pain made her disagreeable. 

"Kikyo," he said; she'd asked him not to call her by her first name on several occasions, but the request never seemed to stick. For most servants, this blunder would have been grounds for termination, but Dr. Zan had been with the Zoldyck family for five decades, and her husband was reluctant to let him go. "Silva tells me you're bleeding."

“And hurting,” she said, folding her arms across her belly. Silva set the bottle of painkillers on the counter next to her, and she nodded in thanks. “Dear, would you fetch me a clean pair of panties?” 

Silva wordlessly retreated to the bedroom, and Dr. Zan scurried to her side. The doctor’s fingers were dry and leathery on her wrist. “Your pulse is elevated,” he said. “But that’s to be expected with this sort of thing.” 

“This sort of thing?” She palmed two pills from the bottle and set it back on the counter. “So you know what’s happening to me?” 

The doctor’s lips, already thin, seemed to disappear altogether. She swallowed the painkillers dry, trying to ignore the thing in her chest with its needle-teeth in her heart. 

“I have a guess.” He pressed the back of his hand to her forehead. “No fever, that’s good.” 

“What is your guess?” 

Dr. Zan looked over his shoulder, where Silva had reappeared with the requested item. “Looks like she’s miscarrying,” he said. “She’ll bleed for maybe a week or so, in two weeks she’ll be healed up and ready to go again.” 

Kikyo took the underwear from her husband, then looked down at her hands, shaking and white. Against all sense, she’d hoped it could be something else; hearing the word spoken aloud crushed her anger into dust. 

“Then there’s nothing to be done for the baby?” asked Silva. 

“I’m afraid not.” The doctor clapped his shoulder—an awkward gesture, considering their height difference—and shook his head. “But honestly, it’s nothing to worry about. Miscarriages are more common than most people think.” 

Kikyo extracted a pad from the package at her feet. The doctor always spoke about her as if she were not in the room, but for once she didn’t blame him. A sense of absence had possessed her; she felt as if she were a wraith, translucent and cold, watching the scene from above.

“Did my mother, ever…?” said Silva. 

“Your mother? Oh, no, no. Nothing but healthy pregnancies.” Even in her dissociative haze, Kikyo could feel the weight of their eyes upon her. “But your little wife here had a healthy baby less than a year ago, and I have no doubt she’ll have many more. She’s young, after all.”

The doctor outlined a few things to look for: if she developed a fever, or completely soaked a pad in one hour or less, Silva was to call again. Otherwise, he prescribed bed rest and took his leave. The painkillers had begun to kick in by then, so Kikyo was able to rise and rinse herself in the tub. Her blood turned the water a rosy pink, and she watched it spiral down the drain in silence. 

When she’d finished, she applied the pad to her clean underwear and slowly pulled them on. She approached the toilet then, drawn by the red stain on the seat, and her stomach turned at the massacre in the bowl. As a career assassin, she saw more blood in a week than most people saw in their lifetime, but she’d never witnessed the death of one of her children. _And that’s what this is_ , she thought, looking down at the bright red water, the clumps of fibrous tissue. _The death of my second child._ She grabbed a wad of toilet paper and set to wiping the stain.

“Let the servants do that." Silva stood in the doorway, hands shoved into the pockets of his cotton pants. “You need to rest.” 

“It’s my blood,” she replied, scrubbing with renewed vigor. “And I’m not tired.” 

After a year and a half of marriage, he knew better than to argue.

Kikyo emerged from the washroom a few minutes later. Though dampened by the wood door, she could hear the sound of water refilling the toilet tank. She sighed. 

Only three weeks had elapsed since they’d confirmed the pregnancy, and she felt foolish for allowing herself to grow so attached in so short a time. Logically, she knew an embryo of ten weeks could not think or feel pain, and that the matter in the toilet was mostly endometrial tissue, but the knowledge brought her no comfort. She’d flushed it all, anyway. What else was there to do?

It took a moment for her eyes to adjust to the dark. Dimly she perceived the tall spires of their four-poster bed, the heavy drapes which adorned them. She touched the armoire to her left—a smooth piece of polished wood, where her husband kept his clothes—and started toward the bed. There was a heap beneath the blankets; Silva was asleep, it seemed. 

A plaintive cry from the nursery halted her halfway. Illumi had quieted while she cleaned herself, but now he was bawling again, his cries clearer for her proximity to the hall. Her eyes flitted to Silva. He didn’t stir. 

Rising to the balls of her feet, she soundlessly altered course, padding towards the bedroom door; seeing her son would do her heart good, and she never could sleep through his crying, at any rate. But she had scarcely crossed the threshold when her husband called out: 

“Kikyo.” His tone was devoid of its prior gentleness. “Where are you going?” 

Head bowed, she turned around. “I wasn’t going to hold him. I was just going to look at him, is all.” 

Silva sighed. She could see him watching her, propped up on his elbow, his hair a mess of white against black pillows. 

“Close the door,” he said. “Come to bed.” 

Reluctantly, she obeyed. A wave of pain rolled through her, and she collapsed into bed, one hand clutching her abdomen. 

“You’ll spoil that child,” said Silva. The bedframe creaked as he rolled towards her, his huge arm falling across her in a loose embrace. “A Zoldyck should not rely on others for comfort.” 

“I know.” Kikyo closed her eyes, relishing the warmth of his body. “You’re right. I just—after all this—” A sob welled up in the back of her throat, and she swallowed it with difficulty. “I wanted to see him.” 

“He’ll be there in the morning,” murmured Silva, pressing a kiss to the side of her neck. “Get some sleep.” 

Gray light was seeping through the windows by the time her son’s cries subsided, the first intimation of a dismal dawn. Kikyo lay awake all the while, eyes fixed on the underside of the canopy. Tears trickled down her temples and settled in her hair, but she did not move or make a sound.

* * *

There was no pain, which struck her as strange. Illumi had not been an easy birth, and the memory of her ten hour labour was etched deep with agony. But now, even as she bore down, pushing with all her might, she felt only a sense of pressure, firm and constant on her swollen belly. 

“Come on, Kikyo,” said Dr. Zan. “We’re almost there.” 

A large hand squeezed her own; she looked down to see her husband, silhouetted against white fluorescents, speaking soft words she did not understand. The brilliant glow of the lights coupled with his pale blond hair lent him the mien of a god, or at least what she always imagined a god would look like. 

“Come on, Kikyo,” Dr. Zan said again. “I can see the head.” 

Her gaze rose to the ceiling, where a long, rectangular mirror captured the scene: the sheet beneath her wet with amniotic fluid, her mauve nightgown soaked in sweat. Three figures surrounded her, at varying degrees of closeness. The first was Silva, right at her side, ever the dutiful husband; the second was the doctor, peering between her legs; the third was an old woman, lingering a few paces to her right. This final figure was not watching the baby, whose pink head had begun to breach her body. Instead, she was watching the mirror, or at least she appeared to be. It was unlikely she could actually see anything with pupils so clouded and white, but her eyes seemed to bore into Kikyo's nevertheless. 

At first, she hadn’t recognized the woman. Her lank black hair was streaked with gray, not full and lustrous as she had known it in her youth, and her clothes were little more than rags. It was the eyes that first stirred her memory, and the thin red mouth that confirmed it—her mother was never seen without lipstick, even in the direst of straits. 

Terror seized her. How had the woman found them? How had she breached the gate? How had she escaped Meteor City, now that she was frail and blind? A hundred such questions surged through her, but when she opened her mouth all that came forth was a formless groan. 

Kikyo did not watch her son’s birth—transfixed by the sight of her mother, she could see nothing else—but she felt him slip out, quick and easy. Risking a glance, she saw Dr. Zan holding the infant aloft, the man’s face contorted in an ugly smile. Neither doctor nor husband paid any mind to the woman near the door. 

“Give him to me,” said Kikyo, casting a sharp look to her right. At the low angle, she could see her mother’s hands clasped before her, the fingers decked with tarnished rings. _And get her out of here,_ she thought, but some impulse kept her silent. The apparition was impossible; her mother could not be there. It stood to reason that she was losing her mind, and if that was true, then she did not want anyone else to know. Especially not her husband. 

Someone placed the baby in her arms. So unlike Illumi, born thrashing and wailing, this child was still and silent. Dread coiled in her stomach, tight and cold; she was suddenly afraid to look down. 

“He has your eyes,” said Silva. “Don’t you think, dear?” 

Her mother grinned, exposing several missing teeth. There was an element of gloating in the expression. _This is what you get,_ it seemed to say. _This is what happens when you leave me behind._

Unable to wait any longer, Kikyo set her jaw and dropped her gaze. Looking into the face of her newborn son, she saw the pearly lustre of blind, dead eyes and began to scream. 

A voice was calling her name. 

She struggled toward it, a swimmer grappling against a current, but the sound was faint, and she could not orient herself in the darkness. 

Just when she thought she would drown, a hand grabbed her by the shoulder, solid and firm. It dragged her up, shaking her till she emerged, gasping, into the bed. Silva relaxed his grip on her shoulder. 

“Another nightmare?”

The sheets clung to her back, sticky with sweat. It was still dark, but she had no inkling of the time. “Yes.” 

Silva sighed and pulled her close. “Are you sure you don’t want to talk about it?” 

Almost a month had passed since the miscarriage, and though the nightmares were not a nightly occurrence, they happened frequently enough that she had begun to dread sleep. She offered to sleep in the guest room, so as not to disturb her husband, but he flatly refused the request. 

“No,” she said. “I don’t.” 

“Then is there anything else I can do?” 

_Just hold me_ , she thought, wrapping a cold hand around his forearm, but a question burned in her mind; it had been percolating for two weeks, ever since they’d resumed sexual intercourse, and the nightmares increased twofold. 

“Actually, I was wondering if—” She stopped short. “What I mean to say is, I think it might be a good idea if—” She stopped again, took a deep breath. “I want to talk to Dr. Zan about birth control.” 

There was a beat of silence. Silva could surely feel her heart knocking against her chest, battering her ribs as if desperate to escape. “Just for a while,” she added hastily. “So we can focus on Illumi’s training. You said yourself he’s fallen behind, and—” 

“You’re afraid you’ll miscarry again.” 

The excuses withered in Kikyo’s throat. 

“It’s alright,” he said, squeezing her gently. “The answer is yes, Kikyo. We’ll try for another baby when you’re ready.” 

She pressed a kiss to his arm, then to the palm of his hand, murmuring words of thanks. Silva was a good husband; better, perhaps, than she deserved. Since the beginning, their relationship had been predicated on a mutual desire for a big family—she could think of no stronger affirmation of love than his willingness to postpone their second child for her sake. 

Still, she felt a pang as he withdrew to his side of the bed. Real or imagined, she had sensed an undercurrent of exasperation (or perhaps resentment?) in his tone. She was a grown woman, and what’s more, she was a Zoldyck. To be troubled by nightmares was a childish quirk at best; at worst, it was proof of her weak constitution, of her inherent unworthiness to bear her husband’s name. 

When Kikyo drifted off again, she did not dream of the stillborn child. Instead, she found herself on the streets of Meteor City, hot and hungry, a scrapping child of twelve. It was a Saturday, and the narrow street was packed with people baking in the afternoon sun. The smell was horrendous, but she paid it no mind; she’d been born and raised in the city, and you got used to the stench. 

Near the end of the street, she caught sight of a white-blond head, carried high above the rabble. She was drawn to the figure, whose face she could not see, but who nevertheless seemed to emanate an air of regality. Perhaps he was a prince from some foreign land; in any case, picking his pocket would be lucrative. 

She pushed against the throng, but it seemed to resist her, and though she advanced in fits and bursts her target never grew any closer. Sweat trickled down her brow; she was almost ready to give up when the man turned his head. 

Instantly, she knew the face. She knew it from the square jaw to the blue eyes to the contemplative frown; it was a face she loved more dearly than any other, yet as she looked at it a feeling of wrongness took root in her. She was not supposed to be here. She was not a girl of twelve, but a woman of eighteen, and this man, her lover, should soon be her husband. 

“Silva!” she cried, waving her thin white arms. “Over here!” 

A blue eye flitted in her direction, but seemed to look through, rather than at her. Of course. All he could see was an urchin girl, sunburnt and filthy, a dreamer misplaced in time. 

“Silva!” Her cry rose to shriek. “Silva, it’s me! It’s Kikyo!”

Soon the man turned away, either deaf to her cries or unconcerned by them. She kept calling his name long after he was lost from sight, thrashing against the tide of the crowd, screaming her throat raw. 


	2. Chapter 2

“How’s he doing?” 

Kikyo’s gaze flicked toward the voice. Silva had appeared beside her, pale skin amber in the torchlight. Across the narrow hall stood a thick iron door, the evident source of a terrible clamor: bestial snarls, pained yelps, and high-pitched howls which might have been animal or human. 

“He’s winning,” she said brightly. Her back was ramrod straight, her arms folded against her chest. With the passing of Illumi’s fourth birthday, his training regimen had increased in both rigor and severity. She was not yet accustomed to throwing her son into mortal peril, and each cry struck her like a physical blow.

It was for his own good, of course. The Zoldyck reputation was well earned; any child raised within their walls would grow strong and deadly well before adolescence. By five years old, he would be a match for a grown man. By ten, he would be untouchable by any but a _Nen_ user. By fifteen, even skilled _Nen_ users would quail before him, and he would only become more powerful thereafter. Still, she worried about pushing him too hard—though he seldom spoke of it, one of Silva’s brothers had died young, a consequence of his training. The thought of a similar fate befalling her own firstborn made her stomach roil. 

“Winning?” Silva squinted at the door. “When did you check?” 

“About two minutes ago. He had an arm around the dog’s throat.” There was an unmistakably human shout, and her nails sank into the flesh of her arm. “Should I check again, dear?”

“No, it’ll be over soon enough. I came to talk to you about a different matter.” 

“Oh?” Kikyo did not divert her gaze from the door. “Trouble with the new crop of butlers?” 

“No. Not that.” A canine growl filled the subsequent pause; beneath it, she discerned the low, heaving gasps of a sobbing child. “It’s time, Kikyo.” 

“Time for what?” she asked, but she knew. Her use of birth control had been a point of contention for more than three years. Silva often asked when she planned to stop; _Soon_ , she’d say, her mind drawn inevitably to her nightmares, to the dead thing rotting in her belly. _I just need a few more weeks._

“Grandfather examined Illumi’s aura this morning. He’s a manipulator.” 

“So?” 

“ _So_ , the head of the Zoldyck household has traditionally been a transmuter.”

Kikyo felt a stab of annoyance. Silva’s grandfather, Maha Zoldyck, had been an enhancer before he became a specialist, and it seemed ridiculous to discount Illumi based on aura alone. “There have been exceptions.” 

“There has been _one_ exception,” corrected Silva. “And if Illumi demonstrates sufficient power to me, as Maha did to his father, I might reconsider his eligibility as an heir. Until then, I will operate under the assumption that he is not fit to carry the Zoldyck mantle.” 

Another bout of snarling erupted from the room. If Illumi was not to be the heir, then she needed to bear at least one more child, and she could tell by the set of her husband’s jaw that he would not abide further postponement. 

“It’s been four years, Kikyo.” He sighed, set a hand on her shoulder. “Were you lying when you said you wanted a big family? Just telling me what you thought I wanted to hear?” 

“No.” The word echoed in the wake of a sudden silence, for all noise had ceased behind the door. “I would never lie to you,” she said, lowering her voice. “I want more children just as much as you do.” 

“Then it’s time. It’s past time.” 

There was a low knock on the door, a tiny fist striking iron, and Kikyo rushed to unfasten the latch. The hinge squealed as she wrenched open the door, and the bloodied boy, who had evidently been leaning against it, fell forward into the hall. 

“Get up, Illu,” she snapped. The dog lay motionless in the room behind him, a hulking shape on the stone floor. Even in death its yellow teeth were bared, its white muzzle dripping red; her son was drenched in blood, and she had no way of knowing how much of it belonged to the animal. 

When Illumi did not move or reply, her pleas grew tremulous and soft. “Can’t you stand, honey? Won’t you stand up for Mama?”

The boy stirred. His little hand twitched. Shaking with effort, he pushed himself up with one arm; the other he held close to his chest. Bite marks dotted both limbs, and a chunk of one forearm appeared to be missing. 

“That’s it,” she cooed. “Brave little Illu. Let’s get you patched up, hm?” 

Taking her son by the arm, Kikyo started down the hall—the infirmary was upstairs, and Illumi was in obvious need—but she didn’t make it far before Silva called out:

“Kikyo.” He spoke the name like a warning. “Wait.” 

She halted, turned to face her husband. He was silhouetted against the torchlight, a dark figure in a dark corridor; she couldn’t see his expression, but she didn’t need to. The force of his _Ren_ , which choked the air like thick smoke, was more than sufficient to read his mood. 

“It’s alright.” She flashed a tight smile. “I’m ready to try again. Really.” 

He looked at her for a long moment, neither moving nor speaking. At last, he relaxed his aura. 

“Thank you, Kikyo. This is for the best. You’ll see.” 

Even in their first year of marriage (which had been rife with disagreements) her husband had only set his _Ren_ upon her once. It pained her to know that she had become the source of so much ire, but it did not surprise her; Silva had made his discomfort clear, particularly over the past few months. She’d chosen to ignore him for her own sake, and she was paying the price now. 

All but dragging Illumi alongside her, Kikyo fled the dungeon. Maybe another child would undo the damage she’d caused, or maybe the rift between them was irreparable. 

Either way, her respite was over. 

* * *

Kikyo squinted at the small print. The boldface heading she could read well enough (“Eating For Two: The Essential Diet For a Healthy Pregnancy”) but the contents of the chapter were indecipherable. She frowned. Just last week, she’d read a similar book with no trouble. Perhaps the den was too dim? All the windows faced east, and very little of the late afternoon light touched her corner of the room.

Leaning across the loveseat, she stretched an arm towards the table lamp. One tug of the pull chain filled the room with new light: the dark leather furnishings revealed their warm brown color, and the red accents of their area rug, an elaborate piece of Kakin origin, seemed bright as blood against the black stone floor. 

The text was clearer now. It still looked blurry, but she could read it, anyway. 

No uncooked meat? That was a shame. She was fond of raw fish, but seldom ate any, since her husband detested it. 

No soft cheeses? No loss there. She never cared much for dairy. 

No alcohol? Well, that was obvious. She flipped the page, skimming the much longer list of foods she was encouraged to eat. By Dr. Zan’s estimation, she was twelve weeks along, just entering her second trimester. Between the nightmares and the nausea she’d been miserable both in and out of bed; the stress couldn’t be good for the baby, but she was wary of medication, despite the doctor’s assurances of safety. Though most miscarriages (including the one she’d had four years prior) occurred during the first trimester, she wasn’t about to take any risks.

There were footsteps in the adjacent corridor. A faint tapping of heels, growing louder—probably one of the butlers, headed to the kitchen. Kikyo rubbed her temples and tried to focus on the virtues of eating legumes. 

Abruptly, the footsteps stopped. She did not look up from her book, but she could hear the girl in the archway: her breaths came quick and harsh, as if she’d been running. 

“Excuse me, Madame?” 

Kikyo sighed and shut her book. If the world was conspiring to prevent her from reading, then she was not going to waste energy fighting it. “What is it, Saka?” 

The butler looked dolefully at the burden in her arms. A shaggy black head ( _he’s overdue for a haircut)_ rested against her white blouse; the thin limbs, which spilled out of her grasp, were spiked with needles of varying length and thickness. Blood seeped from the base of each one, a hundred red streams streaking pale skin. 

“He passed out,” said Saka. “I tried to wake him up, but he wouldn’t budge. I thought it’d be best to bring him to you.” 

Kikyo arched an eyebrow. “To me? Not to the doctor?”

“The master said not to bother Dr. Zan unless it was an emergency.” She shifted beneath Kikyo’s look. “He’s still breathing, so I don’t think this counts.” 

“I see.” Kikyo set her book aside. “So you think the doctor’s time is more valuable than mine?” 

“No, ma’am. Not at all. I just thought that—” 

“It’s fine, Saka,” Kikyo cut in. The girl was new to the family, a Meteor City recruit from the previous year, and she was barely sixteen. Kikyo was willing to forgive her breach of protocol—this time. “Bring him here.” 

Saka hurried over, gingerly laying the boy at Kikyo’s feet. The pressure from the floor made several needles ooze fresh blood. 

“How did you try waking him?” 

“I tried yelling at him. Shaking him. Slapping him.” She bit her lip. “Maybe he just needs to sleep it off.” 

Kikyo slid to the edge of the cushion, looked down into her son’s pale face. She hated seeing him unconscious more than she hated seeing him in pain; at least when he screamed, with his eyes screwed shut and his teeth bared, she knew he was still fighting. Of course, she preferred he endure his training stone-faced, showing no inkling of weakness, but that would come in time. Right now, with his brow smooth, eyes closed, and mouth parted, he looked utterly vulnerable. 

“Give me the prod,” said Kikyo, holding out her hand. 

“Ma’am?” 

“The prod. Don’t tell me you left it in the dungeon?”

Saka shook her head, producing a skinny black object, about half a meter in length, from her blazer’s inner pocket. Kikyo took it from her, giving the button above the grip an experimental push. Blue sparks jumped between the metal prongs at its far end. 

“Seems to be operational,” said Kikyo. “Wouldn’t you agree?” 

“Yes, ma’am.” 

Before the girl could so much as flinch, Kikyo had the business end of the prod jammed beneath her ribs. “But that can’t be right,” she continued, “because if it were operational, then you would have used it on my son, as you were instructed to do.” 

“But—”

Kikyo pressed the button again. 

To her credit, Saka did not scream; Zoldyck butlers were made of sterner stuff than that. She did double over, however, trying to protect her stomach, but Kikyo kept the prod steady for a solid five seconds. By the time she pulled it back, the stench of burning flesh hung thickly in the air. 

“Well, seems it works after all,” said Kikyo. “Care to explain why you neglected to use it?” 

Saka straightened with visible difficulty. A charred stain tarnished her blouse, but she kept her arms at her sides, not grasping at the wound. “I thought it might kill him,” she said. “He’d already lost some blood, and he just looked so weak—”

Kikyo’s eyes narrowed. “What did you say?” 

“Not weak. What I meant to say was—” 

“You said what you meant.” Turning back to her son, Kikyo pressed the prod into the centre of his chest. She could feel it rising and falling with the cadence of his breath. “Why don’t we see if you’re right, hm?” 

Not waiting for a reply, she activated the prod; Illumi jerked wildly, electricity coursing through his limp body. Blood gushed from his puncture wounds, and burns began to form around the bases of the needles. Finally, his eyes flashed open, black and wide and confused; his face crumpled a moment later, wrought with agony.

“See?” Kikyo withdrew the prod. “Can you get up for me, Illu?” 

Illumi scrambled to his feet. An ugly wound was forming on his bare chest, which heaved with short, rapid breaths. From where Kikyo sat, their eyes were level; her son was tall for his age, but still barely surpassed a meter. 

“You fainted, Illu,” said Kikyo. “Saka here was worried about you.”

Abashed, the boy looked at his feet. Needles protruded from the top of each one, and his toes were caked with dried blood. “Sorry, Mama.” 

“Don’t be sorry, honey. Just do better next time, hm?” Kikyo’s attention shifted to the girl, her thin smile giving way to a scowl. “My husband designed this training regimen with Illumi’s limitations in mind. If he tells you to use the prod to wake him, you will use the prod. If he tells you to break my son’s arm, you will break it. If he tells you to cut his throat, you will cut it. If his heart stops, you will take him to Dr. Zan, who is more than capable of reviving him. Illumi is a _Zoldyck_. Perhaps you’ve forgotten what that means.” Her voice, which had risen to a shout, suddenly dropped in volume. “I am willing to give you one more chance. Next time you so much as insinuate that my son is too weak to endure his training, I will have you on a bus back to Meteor City before the day is out. Understood?” 

Saka had grown nearly as pale as Illumi, but she managed to speak: “Yes, ma’am.” 

“Good. Now,” Kikyo took her son’s hand, smiling once more. “Are you ready to go back to the dungeon, Illu?” 

Tears welled in Illumi’s big black eyes. He sniffed. “Do I have to?” 

“Yes, honey, I’m afraid so.” With her free hand she flattened his hair, which stood on end by means of residual electricity. “Don’t you want to grow up big and strong like Papa?” 

Illumi looked at his feet again. He did not reply. 

“Illu?” 

“Yes, Mama.” 

“That’s my boy.” She patted his cheek. “Tomorrow we’ll go to town for some ice cream, hey? It’s been too long since we left the mountain.” 

Illumi nodded glumly, evidently ambivalent to the prospect of an outing. Ice cream had been his favorite from the time he could eat solid food, but lately no reward seemed to entice him. Eighteen straight hours of training was no doubt exhausting for a boy of four, even with alternating days of rest; soon Silva would increase the duration to twenty-four hours, and the poor thing would be sleeping on his feet. 

“Take this,” she said, handing Saka the prod. “And send someone to clean the rug right away. I don’t want it to stain.”

“Yes, ma’am.” 

She released Illumi’s hand, quashing the ache in her heart. He tottered towards the archway, stiff and slow, the butler girl at his heels. 

“Do your best, Illu,” she called. “Mama loves you.”

When their footsteps faded to silence, Kikyo tried reading again; but her vision swam in the lamplight, and a wave of nausea compelled her to stop for the night. She tried not to think of the thing growing in her womb, of its fragility. She tried not to think of Illumi, who was surely screaming in the (blessedly soundproof) dungeon as he learned to tolerate puncture wounds. 

Instead, she let her thoughts drift to her mother. 

Kikyo recalled standing in the shade of the woman’s red sunhat, nestled in the folds of her skirt. Sundry rings and necklaces were arrayed on a table before them, bright copper on purple cloth; the silver and gold items were kept in a locked display, for Meteor City was riddled with thieves. While the woman haggled with the vendor over “a glorified bauble,” Kikyo noticed for the first time a fleck of white in her sharp black eyes. It was no reflection, for it stayed still even as she shook her head to refuse a counteroffer, a pale blemish on the edge of each pupil. At six years old, she had never seen such a thing. Curious, she began tugging at her mother’s skirt.

“Not now, Kikyo. Mama’s busy.” 

Another butler entered the room, breaking her reverie. Rubber gloves covered the cuffs of his slim black blazer, and he bore a tin bucket with a wood scrubbing brush. 

Right. She’d sent for someone to clean the rug. 

“Over here,” said Kikyo, pulling her legs onto the loveseat. “There’s blood. Make it quick.” 

Outside, the sky had darkened so the reflection of the den could be seen in the tall windows. Eyeing her own image, Kikyo placed a hand on the swell of her belly. The butler was hunched at her feet, working diligently; the rustle of bristles scouring the rug masked all other sound. 

By dinnertime, no trace remained of the stain.


	3. Chapter 3

Fingers traced her temples. Kikyo could sense him searching, piercing her skull with thin tendrils of _Nen;_ Dr. Zan’s ability was painless, but she didn’t like the idea of someone poking around inside her head. He could only see physical ailments, and thus had no inkling of her thoughts (beyond what he could glean from her behavior), but the process still felt fundamentally invasive. She squeezed Silva’s hand, tried to ignore the pressure behind her eyelids. 

Due to her pregnancy, she hadn’t taken an assignment in more than eight months, and since the butlers carried out the bulk of Illumi’s training, she’d had little to do but read and watch television. Her inability to consume a page of print (or stare at a screen for ten minutes) without developing a headache was consequently impacting her quality of life. When several standard examinations revealed nothing—the spots in her eyes were plain to see, of course, but their nature remained unknown—she requested Dr. Zan use his _Hatsu_ , discomfort notwithstanding. 

“Interesting,” mused the doctor. “Very interesting.” 

“What?” said Silva. 

Dr. Zan withdrew his hands. At once, Kikyo opened her eyes, blinking into the harsh light. The white walls and linoleum floors gave the examination room a barren feel that she’d always hated, and now more than ever the fluorescents hurt her eyes. 

“As I suspected, these are not typical cataracts.” Behind the doctor, a thick volume bound in red leather sat conspicuously on the countertop. Despite her diminished vision, Kikyo could make out the title— _Afflictions of the Aura: Causes and Cures_. Presently, Dr. Zan retrieved the book, flipping to a bookmarked page. “Now. Kikyo, you said your mother suffered from the same problem?” 

“That’s right.” Shifting on the thinly-padded table, she jammed her thumbs into the small of her back. Her belly was larger now than it’d been at nine months with Illumi, and she was not looking forward to getting bigger. “Last I saw my mother she was in her thirties, and she was nearly blind then.” 

“When did you first notice something wrong with her eyes?” 

Kikyo thought of the day at the jewelry stand, the blemish in her mother’s pupil. “I must have been six or seven, which would have made her twenty-two or twenty-three.” 

“Was she a _Nen_ user?” 

Now she saw her mother turn away from the vendor, a new brooch on her breast; in the sunlight it shifted from reddish copper to the unmistakable gleam of gold. “Yes, though she never had any formal training. She was what they call a _Nen_ genius.” 

“I see, I see.” The doctor scribbled a note in the margin of the book. “So I take it your nodes were opened young?” 

“Yes. I have no memory of the event, but my mother claimed she opened them with a _Nen_ attack when I was three years old.” 

“Aha! Well, Silva, I do believe I’ve diagnosed your wife.” Dr. Zan turned the book around, but she hadn’t brought her reading glasses, and even the heading was a blur. “What you have, Kikyo, is a deformation of the aura nodes in your eyes, resulting in secondary nuclear sclerotic cataracts. That means a clouding on the part of your eye that focuses light,” he added, when she furrowed her brow. “It’s generally hereditary, but doesn’t usually take effect until later in life—most of us develop cataracts, sooner or later.”

“Then why is it affecting Kikyo now?”

“I’m getting to that.” The doctor looked more excited than Kikyo had ever seen him; he set the book aside, gestured emphatically with both hands. “It can be triggered by a premature opening of the aura nodes, which is what happened in your wife’s case. Perhaps someone did the same to her mother; or being a _Nen_ genius, her nodes might have opened spontaneously. Who knows. This is quite a rare disease, you see. Not much literature on it.” 

Kikyo’s heart sank. She was no scientist, but she could guess what “not much literature” meant vis-à-vis a cure.

“How is it treated?” asked Silva. 

“Many treatments have been tried. Surgical removal of the cataracts alone was ineffective—they grew back twice as fast. Sealing only the affected aura nodes doesn’t seem to do much, either—” 

“So what works?” Kikyo cut in. Her back ached, the bright lights were making her head throb, and if she was going blind she wanted to know about it already. “Does anything?” 

The doctor’s expression seemed to soften. “Your cataracts are aggravated by the flow of _Nen_. Sealing all of your aura nodes and leaving them that way is the only surefire method of halting the growth. Once the flow of aura has been stopped, we can surgically remove them as we would normal cataracts. But if you try to use _Nen_ again, they will grow back.” 

There was a long pause. A deep, cold panic was spreading in her chest. 

“You’re saying she can never use _Nen_ again?” said Silva. 

“Assuming she doesn’t want to go blind, yes. I’m afraid there’s no other way.”

Kikyo swooned, falling back on the inclined table. She’d had the use of her aura for as long as she could remember; asking which she’d rather lose—her sight or her _Nen_ —was not unlike asking which leg she’d most like to cut off. 

“Kikyo.” Her husband was leaning over her, brow creased in concern. “Kikyo, it’s alright.” 

“Alright?” she echoed. She was going to be blind before she turned thirty, or else she would have to give up her profession. What kind of assassin couldn’t use _Nen?_ Without her aura, she wasn’t even certain she could open the testing gate—she would be weaker than a servant, reliant on the butlers for protection. 

It felt as if a great hand were crushing her, restricting her breath; her vision was growing dark. 

“Kikyo, stay with me. We are going to figure this out.” Her husband’s voice was steady, but he looked more distraught than she’d ever seen him; though his face was smooth with youth (he was only twenty-seven), she could see the folds that would someday turn to wrinkles—dividing the heavy brows, framing the stern mouth.

“There’s no need to decide today,” said Dr. Zan. “In all likelihood, it will be a few years before her condition becomes serious, and a decade before she’s completely blind.” 

“You said this disease is hereditary?” Silva glanced back at the doctor. “Is there some way to tell if our son has it?” 

Fresh panic lanced her chest; she hadn’t considered the children. If Illumi couldn’t use _Nen_ , then all his training—nearly five years of suffering—would be for nothing. Her son would never be able to protect himself against a _Nen_ user, and _Nen_ less herself, she couldn’t protect him, either. Her unborn son would be doomed to a similar fate, or else to blindness. The pearl-eyed infant from her nightmares was seeming less like a spectre of the past and more like an omen of the future.

“Until his nodes are opened, there’s no way to know for sure. And I’d advise against awakening him too early, since that seems to be a trigger. But there is a little good news, though it might just be a curiosity...”

“What?” said Kikyo. She was desperate for a shred of hope. “What good news?” 

“The disorder may be sex linked—all four documented cases are women. Then again, it might be a coincidence. With such a small sample size we can’t be certain.” Dr. Zan shrugged. “Kikyo, if you allow me to examine you at regular intervals, I could learn more about the progression of the disease. I might even be able to devise a treatment, something that hasn’t been tried before.” 

Kikyo forced a deep breath. She’d always hoped none of her children would be daughters—if her youth had taught her anything, it was the vulnerability of her sex—and now she had another reason to be grateful for her sons. “I’ll do whatever it takes.” 

“Splendid.” The doctor clapped his hands together. “We’ll start next week. After that we’ll take a little break, given your, ah, condition. How is our newest Zoldyck coming along, by the way?” 

“He was kicking up a storm last night,” said Silva. With both hands, he pulled Kikyo to her feet. “Little Milluki’s a fighter.” 

Dr. Zan laughed. “I’ll bet. You’ve settled on the name, then?” 

“Yes, we have.” Kikyo grasped her husband’s forearm, steadying herself. “Now if you don’t mind, dear, I’d very much like to lay down.” 

“Of course,” said Silva. “Just a moment.” 

Her husband and the doctor exchanged a few hushed words; they were talking about her, almost certainly, but Kikyo couldn’t muster the effort to care. The world was a bright, bleary thing, and she wanted nothing more than to curl up in a dark room and forget the fate of her children. 

Two hours later she was dozing in bed, curtains drawn against the midday sun. 

Six hours later, she was in labor. 

* * *

Despite being two weeks premature, Milluki Zoldyck was born a hefty 4.4 kilograms. His screams were ear-splitting, his skin was pink, and his eyes were steely blue—Kikyo, exhausted as she was, wept for joy. She hoped his eyes would remain like his father’s, not darken over time as Illumi’s had done, but so long as his vision stayed clear she would consider herself the luckiest mother in the world. 

After birthing her first son in Dr. Zan’s operating theatre—a cold room where even the floors were stainless steel—she’d insisted on birthing Milluki in her own bedroom. The pain was spectacular, but with pillows piled behind her and a mattress beneath her (protected by a layer of absorbent pads), she was comfortable as anyone in labor could be. 

The doctor switched off his portable light, and the room yielded to the soft glow of yellow lanterns. It was well past midnight, and the eveningstar was a white ring in the window; undoubtedly an artifact of her deteriorating sight, but just then she found it beautiful. 

“How are you feeling?” asked Silva. 

“Tired.” Milluki was asleep at her breast, quiet at last. She smiled up at her husband. “But happy.” 

He returned the smile, gave her shoulder an affectionate squeeze. “Think you’re ready for a visitor?” 

“A visitor?” 

Silva stepped aside. 

At first she saw nothing, save a rectangle of solid black, but gradually she resolved two figures. One was Illumi (she knew this not because of his face, which was indecipherable in the dark, but because of his stature; there were no servants with such a small build). The other she inferred to be Tsubone, the butler they’d placed in charge of his training. 

Kikyo adjusted her gown to cover herself, then beckoned her son. “Come meet your baby brother, Illu.”

Tsubone pushed him forward, and he stumbled into the light. As he approached the bed, she saw that one of his eyes was swollen shut. This week he was learning the _Rhythm Echo_ , and judging by the state of his face, the technique was not coming easily. The likelihood of Illumi becoming the Zoldyck heir seemed slim as of late, but with a healthy baby in her arms the thought did not trouble her like it used to. 

“His name is Milluki,” said Kikyo. “But you can call him Millu, for short.” 

Illumi considered the infant for a long moment, his good eye unblinking. “Do you want me to kill it?” he asked.  
  
Kikyo inhaled sharply. Dr. Zan clucked his tongue. It was Silva, however, who spoke first, dropping into a crouch so he and the boy were at eye level. 

“No, Illumi, I don’t want you to kill him. Milluki is your brother. Do you know what that means?” 

The boy shook his head. 

“It means he’s family, just like you and I, and a Zoldyck never ever hurts his family.” His gaze shifted to Kikyo, and she felt her heart stir at the look; there was love in those eyes, as much love as she’d ever seen, but more than that there was forgiveness. Whatever had passed between them in the past five years, she had cause to hope that Milluki would bring them together again.

“Once you were vulnerable, like he is now, and as an older brother you have a duty to protect him.” Silva turned back to the boy. “I want you to promise me you’ll protect him, Illumi.” 

Illumi looked at the floor. A drop of blood trickled over his swollen eyelid. 

“I need to hear you say it, Illumi.” 

“I promise, Papa.” 

“Good.” He clapped the boy’s shoulder. “Now, why don’t you get back to Tsubone? I hear you’re making progress on that _Rhythm Echo_.” 

With one last glance at the baby, Illumi turned away. He and Tsubone left in silence, their forms swallowed by the black corridor. 

Kikyo exhaled. “You handled that better than I would have.” 

“Yes, well, you had a good excuse.” He kissed the back of her hand. “Now why don't I take the baby to the nursery so you can wash up? The servants are preparing the guest quarters, so we can sleep while they change the sheets.” 

“That sounds lovely.” She was looking forward to sleep; following nearly eight hours of labor, it was a wonder she could keep her eyes open at all. “Am I all set, doctor?” 

“Yes, Kikyo, I’d say so. I’ll check in tomorrow, but both of you and the baby are looking healthy.” 

Silva and the doctor shook hands, jumping into a final bout of “congratulations” and “thank yous.” She closed her eyes. When they opened again her husband was lowering her into a bath, one arm bracing her back, the other hooked beneath her knees. 

As she sank into the warm water, she thought of their first night together, six years ago. Love had seemed a madness to her then, as it seems to all young lovers; at seventeen, she’d never known so strong a man could be capable of such gentleness. Less than a week after meeting, they were engaged, and Kikyo left Meteor City for the first and last time. She didn’t say goodbye to anyone, not even her mother (if she had, the woman would surely have tried to stop her). 

The uproar from the elder Zoldycks had been cataclysmic. Silva’s grandmother was particularly opposed to the union—no grandson of hers would marry Meteor City filth, if she had any say in it. Though he didn’t like her either, Zeno at least seemed to recognize the inevitability of their marriage; there is no force more stubborn (or more stupid) than a twenty-two year old in the throes of his first romance. The best the man could do was suggest a distant wedding date—“Wouldn’t it be nice to marry in the spring, Silva?”—and hope his son would change his mind. 

Fortunately for her, Silva’s interest had been no passing fancy. 

“Thank you, dear,” she murmured, leaning her head against the tub. “I don’t think I can stay awake much longer.” 

“Then sleep.” Silva smoothed back the hair from her brow. “I’ll carry you to bed in a little while.” 

She tilted her head back, kissed his palm, and closed her eyes again. Not even the sound of Milluki’s cries could keep her awake for long. 

* * *

Milluki sputtered, coughed, turned away from the bottle. 

For his first week, Kikyo had fed him formula free of adulterants, but over the course of the past two months she’d introduced small doses of several poisons. An adjustment period was inevitable—Illumi went through the same thing—but it was imperative to start him young. Building a tolerance was easier for children than for adults; Kikyo’s inoculations had begun a few months before her marriage, and she spent many sleepless nights with her head in the toilet, dry heaving long after her stomach was empty. Zeno and the others had hoped the ordeal would dissuade her from becoming a Zoldyck, but she never once wavered. A diet of poison and salted bread was preferable to a life in Meteor City. 

“Come on,” said Kikyo. “You’ve got to eat, Millu.” 

Seeming to agree, the baby took the plastic nipple in his mouth. His tiny nose wrinkled as if in disgust. No vomiting yet. A good sign. 

Behind her, she heard the front door creak open, followed by a pair of footsteps on stone. She turned to see two blurred figures, wreathed in light; it was a bright spring day, and the atrium windows had no curtains, or else she would have drawn them. These days she preferred it overcast, or better yet pitch dark. Though she was all but blind at night, darkness relieved her ubiquitous headaches. 

Her husband was easily distinguished by his height and hair. The squat figure of her father-in-law she recognized by his gait—slow but firm, both hands clasped behind his back. His hair was a smudge of white above a featureless face. 

“Welcome home,” she called to the pair. “How was the job?” 

“Went off without a hitch,” said Zeno. “Seven dead, minimal blood, no witnesses. How’s my newest grandson?” 

She smiled, setting the (now empty) bottle on the bookshelf. “He’s a better eater than Illumi ever was, that’s for sure.”

“Good! You should bottle feed Illumi again, eh? That kid’s getting too skinny!” 

Kikyo laughed politely. They weren’t exactly amicable, but she and Zeno had a mutual respect for one another that made sharing a roof tolerable. 

The man elbowed her husband, muttered something indistinguishable, then yawned theatrically. “Well, I haven’t slept in three days, so I’m going to take a nap. If I’m still sleeping at six, wake me for dinner.” 

“Of course, Father. Have a good rest.”

The man grumbled his thanks and shuffled off, presumably to his own quarters.

An open archway separated the atrium from the living room, a lavish space twice the size of the den. There was a (currently unkindled) fireplace big enough for a man to stand in, and a diamond chandelier that caught flashes of blue from windows. Kikyo stood near the back of the room, where the light was not so harsh; Silva closed the distance in four strides, greeting her with a kiss on the cheek. 

"How was your appointment?” he asked. 

“It was fine. We decided to stop the medication.” 

“Oh?” 

“The doctor said it wasn’t helping. I certainly hadn’t noticed any benefit.” She sighed, pressing her forehead against his chest. “I miss work.” 

“I know. I’ll talk to the doctor soon, Father suggested something that may help.” 

“Oh?” She usually ignored Zeno’s advice, but where her sight was concerned she welcomed new perspectives. 

“If the doctor thinks it could work, I’ll tell you all about it.” Silva drew back partway, so she could see his face; his eyes had begun to look more gray than blue, another side effect of the cataracts. “How goes Illumi’s training?” 

“Better. He mastered the _Rhythm Echo_ shortly after you left, and he’s becoming quite deadly with a throwing knife.” 

“Glad to hear it.” He raised a hand to stroke the sleeping Milluki; his palm alone covered the child’s entire head. “Father and I were talking about it, and we think he’s ready for the arena.” 

Kikyo recoiled as if struck. “Heavens Arena? Silva, he’s barely five years old.” 

“Father sent me when I turned seven, and I came back stronger for it.” The hand returned to her waist, resting there. “Besides, it’d be good for us to have some time alone with the new baby. Why divide our attention when there’s an alternative?”

“But the doctor warned us against opening his nodes early. There are _Nen_ users in the arena. What if—” 

“We can’t let fear of this thing control us, Kikyo,” he said. “And most _Nen_ users are on the 200th floor and above. Illumi need only reach the 200th floor before he returns.” 

She dropped her gaze. From his tone she knew it was no use arguing, that at most she could bargain for a few days’ delay. “How long will he be gone?” 

“Depends on how long it takes him to reach the 200th floor. It took me more than two years, and I was faster than my father.” 

“Two _years?_ ” she repeated, thinking she’d misheard. 

“Yes, that’s right. But don’t worry, Tsubone will send us regular reports of his progress.”

Her chest tightened, her stomach seemed to liquify. She’d never gone longer than a week without seeing her son; two years was unfathomable. 

“Can we at least visit?” 

Silva sighed. “What kind of message are we sending if we show up in the middle of his first assignment? He can’t expect our help every time he runs into trouble. Even Tsubone will be keeping her distance, letting him navigate the arena on his own.” 

Kikyo bowed her head. He was right, of course; it would be selfish to hinder Illumi’s growth just because _she_ didn’t feel ready. If Silva was willing to let him go then she must let him go, too. They both loved the boy, after all, and wanted the best for him. 

“He’ll be back before you know it,” he said, and kissed her. “You’ll see.” 

She stood still for a long time after that, staring into the empty fireplace. It was Milluki who startled her to movement, yelping in pain; she’d grasped him too tightly, nails digging into the flesh of his back. 

“Mama’s sorry,” she soothed, rocking him as he wailed. “Mama didn’t mean to.” 


	4. Chapter 4

The world looked different through the visor. 

In many ways, it improved her vision: she knew whether an object was hot or cold at a glance, and by toggling a dial on the rim she could even discern its chemical makeup (a sort of built-in spectrograph, Silva had explained). By connecting it to the mansion’s security system, she could watch several scenes at once, splitting the screen into as many as eight quadrants without obstructing the main view. It was more than she could have hoped for when Zeno had suggested a prosthetic; the doctor had thought it a brilliant idea, but she’d been hesitant to try. The visor was a patch, masking her blindness without actually curing it. Technology could fail, or be lost, or stolen; she didn’t want to be dependent on something so easily taken away. Still, it allowed her to maintain both her _Nen_ and her independence, so for the time being she’d acquiesced. 

Colors looked different now. She’d spent enough years on Kukuroo mountain to know the shade of the summer sky; today was bright and cloudless, but the sky was too pale, desaturated. The sun itself was colorless, and she could look at it without pain—the visor bypassed her eyes entirely, communicating with her visual cortex, so there was no risk of damage. More than color, though, everything had a flat, almost unreal quality. It was like she was looking out through a television screen (which she supposed wasn’t far from the truth). 

Strangest of all, she couldn’t blink. 

Well, technically she could—her eyelids worked just fine—but when she closed her eyes she could still see. Even in a dark room, the device automatically adjusted the light; so long as she was wearing it, she could not experience darkness. After a month of daily wear this ceased to disconcert her. If she wanted darkness, she simply took the thing off, and she had darkness in abundance. Two years had passed since Dr. Zan’s diagnosis, and her sight was all but gone. 

Milluki’s laughter broke her reverie. She turned to see the boy’s face covered in something thick and white. Whipped cream.  
  
“Did he put his head in the bowl?” she exclaimed. 

“Looks that way,” said Zeno. “What did you expect? It’s on the ground. Toddlers aren’t born knowing picnic etiquette.” 

She huffed, grabbing a napkin from the wicker basket. “You could have stopped him, Father.” 

“Stopped him? Oh, no, that boy’s much too fast for me.” He elbowed Silva. “He’ll be running this place before you know it.”

“Here’s hoping,” said Silva, sipping at his wine. It was a crisp white, imported from Ochima; Kikyo preferred reds, but she wasn’t drinking today. “It doesn’t look like Illumi’s going to beat my record.” 

“He still has a month,” said Zeno. “You never know.” 

“According to Tsubone, he just reached the 198th floor. Beating the last two floors took me as long as the rest put together.” 

“Like I said, you never know. But I agree, it’s unlikely.” 

Kikyo wiped the last bit of cream from Milluki’s face, frowning intently. The boy was watching the dessert bowl as if it might sprout legs and scurry off into the woods. 

“What do you think, Kikyo?” asked Zeno. 

“About what?” 

“Illumi’s progress.” 

She pulled Milluki into her lap, holding him there. “You both know the arena better than I do; I’ve only been a spectator. Still, it seems unfair to compare him to Silva, since we sent him so early. Eighteen months makes a big difference at that age.” 

“Fair point.” Zeno plucked an apple slice from the fruit plate. “Why did you send him early, Silva?” 

“You always taught me to strive for improvement. If the Zoldyck line is to grow stronger, then my heir cannot simply match my achievements; he must surpass them.” Silva shrugged. “Besides, with Milluki’s birth, it seemed like good timing.”

“Well, you can’t be sending Milluki off when your next one’s born.” Zeno’s eyes drifted back to Kikyo. “How far along are you, again?” 

“Nine weeks.” 

“The boy won’t even be three! And sending him too young will do more harm than good.”

“He’s _my_ son,” said Silva, “and I’ll send him when I please. But I agree, two years is too young. I wouldn’t seriously consider it until he turned four.” 

Zeno scoffed. “Sending a four year old is a recipe for disaster. I’m surprised Illumi’s made it as far as he has.” 

“Well I’m not.” Silva set his glass on the checkered tablecloth. “Illumi may not be my heir, but he’s still a Zolydck.”

“Even Zoldycks have limits.” 

“Speak for yourself.” 

Kikyo sighed, nibbling at her third inexplicably tiny sandwich. She’d heard this argument before. Her husband held his father in high esteem, but they’d always had their differences, particularly when it came to the children. She typically took Silva’s side—coddling her sons would only make them weaker—but the men got so lost in their conversation they didn’t usually ask for her input, anyway.

Milluki shifted in her lap. With both arms outstretched, tiny hands contracting and releasing, he looked like he was trying to summon the strawberries and cream via telekinesis. “Okay, Millu.” She picked up a spoon from the silverware pile and placed it in his hand. “Let’s use our manners, hmm?” 

Milluki grasped the utensil, then gave it a wide-eyed, dumbfounded look of which toddlers are uniquely capable. Using all the strength in his chubby arm, he tossed the spoon into the dessert. It landed with a _splat_. 

“Millu,” she scolded. “That is _not_ how we use a spoon.” 

The boy babbled his response; mostly incoherent, with the word “spoon” thrown in the middle, as if he were arguing the merits of spoon-tossing in a language she was too stupid to understand. 

“Let’s try again, hmm?” 

“Again!” agreed Milluki. 

Abandoning the first spoon to its fate, she began sifting through the silverware pile. She had located a smaller spoon, perfectly sized for toddler-hands, when it struck her. 

A bolt of pain in her belly. 

Sweat sprouted on her brow. The arm around Milluki’s middle fell to her side; free at last, the boy planted both hands in the bowl, burying his arms up to the elbows in cream. 

“Kikyo?” 

The men were looking at her—inquisitive, but not concerned, not yet. She was nineteen again, sitting on a toilet in the dark, swallowing grief that stuck like a bone in her throat.

“Morning sickness,” she muttered, wobbling to her feet. “I need to use the facilities, if you’ll excuse me.” 

“Just throw up in the woods,” Zeno called after her. “The dogs don’t judge.” 

Ignoring him, she started toward the mansion. Once she arrived, she would summon the doctor, get him to examine her. Just because it felt like a miscarriage didn’t mean that’s what it was; pregnant women had pains all the time. Her back had ached and ached with Milluki, particularly towards the end. Part of her knew that pain had been caused by the extra weight, something negligible at nine weeks, but she didn’t care. One time was bad enough; she refused to accept such a horrible thing could happen twice. No, it had to be something else. The doctor would tell her so. If she was quick, Silva would never need to know.

At some point she’d started running, hoisting the hem of her white linen dress, heedless of her heels on the dirt path. Surely the wetness between her thighs was only sweat? She was afraid to look down, to check herself for stains—her whole body felt damp, and she had the ludicrous notion that she was soaked in blood, as if a torrent had burst forth from her sunhat, painting her head-to-toe. 

The front door was rising into view, stained pine set in dark stone, when someone grabbed her arm. 

She wheeled around. Standing on the path below, Silva’s height was diminished by the incline, but she still had to look up to meet his gaze. As he studied her face, eyes piercing blue, she was thankful for the barrier of the visor.   
  
“Kikyo,” he began. Trees shifted around them, though the air felt stagnant; it was as if the wind were giving them a wide berth.

“What?” She yanked her arm back, he let go without resistance. “What is it?” 

Silva took a deep breath, seeming to steel himself. A bead of moisture slipped down her breastbone and settled in her navel. 

“There was blood on the tablecloth,” he said, and the strength left her legs. 

Her knees struck the ground first; she could feel the dirt through her silk stockings, cooled by the shadow of a great pine tree. Her palms followed, bracing her arms while she leaned forward, as if to vomit. There was no nausea yet, but her belly throbbed like something was trying to eat its way out from the inside. 

“Kikyo.” He crouched before her. “You can’t do this to yourself. Not again.” 

Tears were leaking from beneath her visor. A pair of hands grasped her shoulders, tight and firm. “Kikyo,” he said. “Look at me.” 

She looked. She could tell that her husband’s body temperature was elevated (likely a consequence of the weather), but his expression she couldn’t quite read. Even in a crisis, he always managed to look composed. “We’ll get the doctor to look you over, but I think we both know what this is.” His thumb brushed her cheek. “A miscarriage isn’t the end the of world. We’ll try again.” 

She shrank back. Was that all he cared about? Trying again? A full year had passed after Milluki’s birth before she felt ready for another pregnancy, and he’d been a healthy baby. Now, she wasn’t sure she wanted to be pregnant again at all; she would cheerfully suffer any physical torture before enduring another loss. 

Silva shuffled forward, wrapped his arms around her in a loose embrace. “This isn’t your fault. It’s nobody’s fault. But you’ve got to learn to let this go.” 

Anger flashed through her, and she narrowly resisted the urge to strike—at such close range, she could cut her husband’s throat in half a second—but the urge passed, leaving her sick and ashamed. Silva was only trying to help. Pregnancy was an abstract, almost mystical process for most men; one minute he had no child, the next he was looking upon that screaming creature, so small and helpless and new, realizing its tiny features were not so different from his own. Only then did men become fathers. She felt the life stirring within her far earlier, and from that moment loved it with all her heart. He’d never understand that. How could he?

Blood was gushing from her now. She could feel it drying on her thighs, silk stockings ruined forever. The pain came in waves, regular as a beating drum. 

“Come on,” he said. “Let’s go inside.” 

He pulled her to her feet, and she resumed her course towards the door. Once more, that sense of absence possessed her—she became a marionette, her consciousness caught in invisible wires, her body a lurching, lifeless thing. The sky was no longer pale blue, but a deep desert sapphire. The sun, now bright and yellow, pierced her eyes. Low voices gathered around her, figures pressing in from all sides. When she lowered her gaze, she saw the crowd—a dark, bustling mass, stretching as far as the eye could see—and in the distance, the head and shoulders of her husband, pristine, unstained. Blisters gnawed at her ankles. Her tongue was swollen and dry. 

Silva was disappearing, flickering in and out of sight like a mirage, but she couldn’t summon the strength to run. She’d been here a hundred times; no matter how fast she ran, she never caught him. What was the point? She just wanted to sit in the shade, forget the whole chase for a while. 

“Kikyo?” 

Reality snapped in place. She was at the threshold of her home in Padokia. Silva stood in the middle of the atrium, one hand extended towards her (palm up, offering assistance), but his eyes looked hard and cold. Impatient. 

“I’m coming,” she said, and stepped inside. 

* * *

Illumi returned eight months later. 

Two years, nine months, and four days had passed since he left home—about one day could be ascribed to travel, as the airship to the arena took nearly eight hours one way—which meant that he fell short of his father’s record by a little more than five months. But as the boy stood in the doorway, still as a statue in Tsubone’s shadow, Kikyo didn’t care. He was whole, he was home, his aura nodes were still closed; that was more than enough. 

“Illu,” she cried, throwing herself at the boy. “I’ve missed you so—”

Something hard struck her gut. She stumbled back, stunned, and saw she’d collided with the butt of Illumi’s palm, which he held in front of him like a talisman. 

It occurred to her how different he looked: he was half a head taller than she remembered, lank hair hanging past his shoulders. His eyes had changed, too—they had a ruthless gleam, cold and calculating. 

“That’s your mother!” said Tsubone. “Show a little respect.” 

Illumi blinked and dropped his hand. “Sorry, Mother. It was a reflex.” 

A reflex! Kikyo thought her heart would burst from joy. “How wonderful, Illu!” she said. “I’m so proud of you. Come inside.” 

Dusk was gathering. It was dinner time, and the butlers had prepared a veritable feast: a roasted pig crowned the long wooden table, garnished with red grapes and green leaves. Hors d'oeuvres on golden trays flanked the animal: deviled eggs, raw fish, black olives skewered with squares of white cheese. The display was resplendent beneath silver chandeliers, which dangled from the high ceiling like stars strung on spider silk. 

Tsubone veered off to join the butlers in the kitchen. Zeno and Maha sat opposite one another, emphatically discussing a recent assignment. Since Milluki’s high chair occupied the space next to Zeno, Illumi settled in next to Maha. Silva sat at the head of the table, sipping his Ochiman wine; ignoring his look of disapproval, Kikyo poured two glasses of Merlot—one for herself, one for Illumi. She was on birth control again, so the wine wouldn’t hurt anything, but it served as a reminder of her renewed resistance. 

“Illumi, do you remember your brother?” asked Kikyo. Milluki was looking mournfully at the feast, chewing on his own hand as if he might soon resort to autocannibalism. 

“A little.” Illumi took the glass in both hands, drinking deeply. He’d had alcohol before—just one more poison to build a tolerance to—but she doubted the bars in Heavens Arena allowed children inside. “He got bigger,” the boy added, squinting at his brother.

“So did you,” said Zeno. “Can’t say I care for the long hair. Don’t they have barbers near the arena?” 

Illumi shrugged, plucked a deviled egg from the nearest tray. “Didn’t seem important. Can I eat yet?” 

“Your father takes the first bite,” said Kikyo. “Don’t you remember?” 

“Oh.” He dropped the egg on his plate, eyes moving to Silva. The man set down his glass and smiled. 

“Go ahead, Illumi. You’ve earned it.” 

The boy hesitated, as if anticipating a trick. But after a moment his hunger seemed to win out, and he devoured the egg in one bite; when this incurred no consequence, he began to eat in earnest, taking one of each item from the golden trays. The rest of the family followed suit, picking at appetizers while the butlers doled out cuts of pork (Saka, now a woman of nineteen, was tasked with feeding Milluki). 

Dinner was pleasant. Illumi broached the subject of her visor as any seven year old might—“So what’s that thing on your face?”—and she managed to explain its function without revealing her condition in detail. Most of the talk focused on Illumi, however, with Silva leading the interrogation. Though it interrupted his meal (Kikyo had to remind him several times not to talk with his mouth full), the boy appeared to enjoy sharing his experience. Even Maha seemed interested in his responses, if only to hear how little the arena had changed. 

There weren’t many adults willing to fight a five year old, and those who did underestimated him. Illumi had quickly learned to use this to his advantage; if he was fast, he could kill his opponent before they registered him as a threat. But by the time he reached the 100th floor, this strategy was no longer reliable. Experienced fighters learned to research their opponents ahead of time, identify strengths and weaknesses. They were subsequently unfazed by his appearance; he was a child, but they knew he was a killer, too, and they weren’t going to hold back. He spent days, sometimes weeks in the infirmary after particularly gruesome matches, which gave him time to reflect on his mistakes. 

“There was this one girl,” said Illumi. “Still a kid, but older than me. A teenager maybe. I couldn’t beat her at first cause she was little and fast, like me.”

“What did you do?” asked Silva. 

“Well first I tried to outrun her, but her legs were long, and she was faster. She knocked me out in our first match, hurt me pretty bad. A week later she was still on the same floor, so I asked for a rematch.” He took a large gulp of wine, polishing off his glass, and continued. “So next time I didn’t try to run at all. She just ran all around me, waiting on me to move, but I stayed still. After a while she got tired, and finally came in close. I let her break my left arm so I could grab her with my right.” Smiling for the first time since his return, he finished the tale: “Then I broke her neck just like you showed me, Father.” 

The table erupted in praise. 

“That’s a good lad,” said Zeno. “He’ll be ready for a real assignment soon, eh Silva?” 

“Soon,” Silva agreed. “I was thinking of giving him the Jol-ik job.” 

Kikyo’s eyebrows shot up above her visor. “Killing a military general is hardly first assignment material.” _And East Gorteau is on the other side of the world_. _He hasn’t even been home a day and they want to send him off again!_

“I have to agree with Kikyo.” Zeno tossed his cloth napkin onto his empty plate. “That job’s worth forty billion jenny. If he fails—”

“I won’t fail.” Illumi set his hands on the table, palm down. The cold gleam in his eyes reappeared. “If I’m gonna lead the family someday, I’ve gotta be the best killer in the world, right?”

The room fell silent. Maha coughed, excused himself from the table. Perhaps Illumi had heard them talking about his future (heaven knows she and Silva argued about the subject enough). Or perhaps he’d eavesdropped on Tsubone giving her weekly report by phone (she often harped on the boy’s unsuitability as an heir). But no one had spoken to him directly; he’d been too young to understand their choice before, and sending a letter to the arena informing him of his deficiencies had seemed unlikely to end well. 

“Illu,” began Kikyo. “Honey…”

“Illumi’s right,” said Silva. “If he can’t kill a difficult target, how will he reach his full potential?” 

“Well, yes,” said Kikyo. “But he’ll never—” 

Silva gave her a sharp look. “I’ll brief Illumi on the assignment tomorrow. If he still wants it, we’ll spend a week preparing him before sending him off. If he doesn’t want it, he doesn’t have to take it. Does that seem fair?” 

Illumi refusing a request from his father seemed about as likely as her cataracts spontaneously dissolving, but it was pointless to protest. When Silva made up his mind, nothing and no one could sway him. 

“Yes, dear,” she sighed. “More than fair.” 

Later that evening, she lay awake in the pitch dark. Rain battered the bedroom windows, the first onslaught of what was to be a seven-day storm (springtime on Kukuroo mountain was seldom dry). Her visor sat on the nightstand to her left, always within reach, and her husband lay motionless beside her. By the cadence of his breath, she knew that he was awake, too. 

“Silva?” she said softly. 

The mattress dipped as he shifted, turning onto his side. “Don’t start, Kikyo. Illumi’s more than ready for—”

“I know.” She pressed her palms into her eyes; a reflexive gesture, as she rarely had headaches anymore. “I won’t waste my breath trying to stop him, or trying to change your mind. But you didn’t have to lie to him.” 

“I didn’t lie. I never told him he was my heir, no one did. I simply allowed him to believe what he already believes.”

“Well, it’s cruel.” 

Silva laughed, a jagged sound against the smooth patter of rain. “And his training isn’t? The world is cruel, Kikyo. Besides, I’m withholding the truth for his benefit. He’s more motivated as he is, which means he’ll work harder. The harder he trains now, the less likely he’ll be hurt or killed later.”

A gust of wind rattled the windows. Kikyo’s hands fell to her sides. “May I ask when, exactly, you plan on telling him?” 

“When we confirm the identity of the real heir.” He shifted again, closer now; though they weren’t quite touching, she could feel the heat of his body. 

“You plan on keeping it from him for another year?” 

Maha’s ability was limited—the aura of young children was a malleable thing, so an accurate reading was impossible until the age of approximately four. Milluki had just turned three the previous month. 

“That depends,” said Silva. “There is no guarantee that Milluki will be a suitable heir. If you insist on avoiding pregnancy until Grandfather tests him, it could be as many as six years before an heir is identified.”

Kikyo bit her lip. The conversation was veering towards dangerous territory. 

“Fine,” she said. “We’ll wait. But it’ll be worse for him, the longer we do.”

Silva’s arm snaked around her waist. She felt the pressure of his body, unyielding as stone, and she was seized by a sudden fear that he would crush her—ribs snapped like twigs, gasping for breath with punctured lungs—but he just kissed her neck and said:

“The longer you wait, the longer he waits.”  
  


A few moments passed, Kikyo stiff and silent in the embrace, before Silva released her. He was snoring not long after, but she lay awake listening to the storm; thunder rolled against the stone walls, following flashes of lightning she saw as bursts of red. Soon sound and light struck together, wind howling like a thing deranged, rain pelting the windows with such force she feared they would shatter. But gradually the thunder receded, time grew long between strokes of lightning, and darkness covered her like a burial shroud. 


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The fic earns its rating this chapter; if you haven't read the tags, I encourage you to do so now.

Kikyo watched for signs of consciousness while Milluki writhed on the stone floor. She counted to five; a dark stain was spreading on his shorts, but the boy didn’t so much as whimper. 

She sighed and withdrew the prod. 

Over the past year she’d come to accept that Milluki’s potential was, in all likelihood, much less than his older brother’s. Though he was more than four years old, his endurance to electricity was worse than Illumi’s had been at three. According to Saka, he had a knack for mathematics, but otherwise the boy showed no promise; what little stability his birth had brought her marriage dissolved in the wake of that realization. 

If Milluki had been a transmuter, Silva might have overlooked his poor performance—perhaps he was, as she hoped, just a late bloomer—but Maha had confirmed two weeks prior that he was a manipulator. No luck. 

She was twenty-eight years old, her tenth wedding anniversary was weeks away, and she’d failed to do the only thing her husband had ever asked of her: produce a viable heir. 

To say their bedroom had grown cold was an understatement. 

Part of her wished Silva would toss her pills down the toilet, forbid Dr. Zan from giving her any more. At least then it would be out of her hands. But she couldn’t bring herself to stop of her own volition—the nightmares had never gone away, and they came more frequently since her second miscarriage. The thought of being pregnant made her physically ill. 

She spent as much time as she could away from home, snapping up whatever contracts Silva threw her way. Though she’d failed in her primary duty, she could still contribute to the family—she was a good assassin, quick and careful; in ten years she’d never botched an assignment. 

The same could not be said of Illumi. 

Her eldest son had never _failed_ a mission, exactly. All of his targets wound up dead, one way or another. But on several occasions he’d been sloppy; on his first assignment, a high ranking official had spotted him fleeing the scene, and he incurred three gunshot wounds as a consequence. Recently, he’d killed a group of bystanders, citing a desire not to leave any witnesses—unfortunately, one of those bystanders was the daughter of their client. It had taken weeks to smooth things over with the woman, and it was unlikely she would ever hire a Zoldyck again. 

Kikyo didn’t know what punishment Silva had inflicted on the boy after that, and she wasn’t sure she wanted to. 

For a moment it looked like Milluki was stirring, but it was only a trick of the torchlight. There was no work for her this week, so she’d elected to conduct his training personally, hoping a little special attention would bring the boy up to speed. So far, she’d seen no improvement; if anything, her presence made things worse. He cried constantly for succor, expecting more sympathy from her than he got from the butlers. Her patience was wearing thin. 

“Wake up, Millu,” she said, tapping his arm with the point of her heel. “We aren’t done yet.” 

Milluki did not move. 

She was contemplating using the prod again when she heard footsteps on the stairs. They were slow, plodding steps; a man’s gait, but not Silva’s. Popping her head out the door, she instantly recognized the approaching figure—with the visor, darkness was no barrier to sight, and she knew the young man well. 

“Gotoh,” she called. “We’re in here.” 

The butler did not reply, which was unusual. Gotoh was always courteous, polite to the point of reverence; his attitude, combined with his skill, had made him one of her favorite servants. If it weren’t for his age (the man was only twenty) she’d have promoted him years ago.

“Gotoh?” She stepped into the corridor. “Is everything alright?” 

Head bowed, he halted before her. Torchlight flickered on his glasses, obscuring his eyes. There were wet lines on his cheeks, as if he’d been crying, and his mouth was set in a grimace. 

Something was wrong. 

“Gotoh?” she said again, lightly touching his arm. “What is it?” 

Gotoh squared his shoulders and looked up. The glare on his glasses vanished, revealing a pair of bloodshot eyes. “I need you to fire me, Madame.” 

“Fire you?” she said. “And why would you need me to do that?” 

He inhaled slowly, gaze never wavering from her visor. That was another thing she liked about Gotoh—the other butlers never knew where to look when talking to her. Some addressed a point above her head, avoiding that false red eye; others just stared at the ground. But Gotoh always looked directly at her, unphased by the device.

“The master made a request of me and I was unable to fulfill that request.” 

Kikyo almost laughed. Was that all? Her husband loved playing mind games with the staff; Gotoh was being too hard on himself. “Let me guess. He asked you to fight him?” 

Not waiting for a response, she continued: “Silva was _testing_ you, Gotoh. By refusing to fight, you passed—otherwise he would have fired you himself.” 

Gotoh shook his head. “The master didn’t ask me to fight him, Madame.” 

The crease between his brows was deepening. Fresh tears filled his eyes; she’d never seen the man so upset. 

Dread reasserted itself, a cold knot in her chest. 

“What did he ask you to do, Gotoh?” 

* * *

Kikyo’s legs dangled from the high hotel bed. Prior to today, the only hotels she’d ever been in smelled like smoke and stale urine; this place smelled like flowers, and she was reasonably confident the bed was free of bedbugs. The Hidden Treasure Hotel received the occasional wealthy visitor, but most of their clientele were full time residents. Tourists were a rarity in Meteor city.

“Kikyo,” called her mother. “Come here.” 

The woman was a purple shape against the yellow plaster wall, black braids piled atop her head. As Kikyo approached, she saw an assortment of rings on the desk before her, each one a different size. 

“Find one that fits,” she said. 

Kikyo obeyed. The prettiest, a gold ring set with rubies, was far too large. The first four she tried were, too—she had small hands, even for a thirteen year old—but the fifth stayed on her right middle finger, a copper ring studded with turquoise. It had the look of something made within the city limits (which is to say, it looked cheap). She frowned at it. 

“Perfect.” Her mother plucked the ring from her finger. “I’ll just be a minute.” 

Though she’d watched it a thousand times, Kikyo never tired of seeing her mother’s _Nen_ ability. It wasn’t that it looked particularly interesting—in fact, without _Gyo_ , she couldn’t see anything at all—but as the pure white aura surrounded the ring, transforming it from a piece of junk into something far more valuable, she felt like she was witnessing magic. 

“There.” She handed it back to her. “Try it now.” 

Excited, Kikyo slipped on the ring. 

Nothing happened. 

“Am I supposed to feel something?” 

The woman’s eyes flicked up and down, as if taking in her daughter’s appearance. In five years she would be too blind to walk without a cane, but the white spots on her pupils were small now, easily concealed by _Nen_ ; only in private did she drop the illusion, baring her unaltered face. She nodded toward the wall, where a full-length mirror hung in a gilded frame. 

“Look.” 

Kikyo’s gaze drifted to the mirror. 

She gasped. The reflection was not that of a thirteen year old girl—her fawnlike legs had grown full and long, her narrow hips had grown wide, and her chest...well, her chest was no longer flat, to put it mildly. She poked one of the breasts, watching her finger sink into the flesh there. It looked real, but more than that, it _felt_ real. 

“How come I didn’t feel myself change?” 

“Because your body didn’t change,” said her mother. “I’ve told you before, my ability only alters minds. So long as you’re wearing that ring, you and anyone within five meters of you will see a grown woman.” 

“So... I can feel this body because the ring tells my brain it’s there?” 

“More or less.” The woman raked the unused rings into a velour satchel. “But it’s not permanent. I’ll need to attach my aura to that ring again, though it should hold for about six hours. More than enough time.” 

Kikyo cocked her head, transfixed. Her red dress had changed, too; it fit the woman in the mirror perfectly. Her sunburned shoulders were now milky white, unblemished. “Will I look like this when I grow up?” 

“I don’t know.” She glanced at her watch. “I don’t even know what you look like now. The ring shows each person a woman they perceive to be beautiful. Which reminds me—don’t talk about your appearance. You don’t know what he’ll see.” 

Idly twisting the ring, Kikyo turned back to her mother. The woman was adjusting her sunhat, getting ready to return to the street. “What do you see?” asked Kikyo. 

A strange look crossed her face, but it was gone before Kikyo could decipher it. She flashed a wan smile. “You look just like me.” 

By the time he arrived, Kikyo was alone. 

Her mother wouldn’t be far—she had a client of her own to attend to, a regular who lived in the adjacent building—but she could’ve been on the other side of the world for all the difference it made. In spite of her assurances, Kikyo was almost too afraid to approach the door. The man had paid upfront, though, and she didn’t want to risk angering him (or worse, angering her mother). 

Creeping close, she raised her eye to the peephole. 

She saw a round, red face, framed by a neat salt-and-pepper beard. His neck was almost too wide for his crew neck shirt, which he wore beneath a khaki blazer. He had kind brown eyes with crow’s feet at the corners; she didn’t know what she’d expected a member of the mafia to look like, but this wasn’t it. 

She opened the door. 

“Kara?” asked the man. His voice was deep and smooth, and his teeth were the whitest she’d ever seen. Kikyo nodded.

“Nice to meet you.” He stuck out his hand. “I’m Nick.” 

Disconcerted, she offered her own hand; he kissed it and stepped into the room, kicking the door shut behind him. 

There was a beat of silence. The man—Nick—just looked at her, something like astonishment on his face. He whistled. “Your boss wasn’t kidding, you really are the most beautiful girl I’ve ever seen.” 

Whatever he saw had nothing to do with her real appearance, but she smiled anyway. “Thank you. I, um, don’t know what she told you, but I’ve never exactly...” She swallowed; her voice felt small, a little bird trapped in her throat. “I’ve never done this before.”

“Is that so?” A hand settled on her waist, and she fought the urge to push it away. “Listen, sweetheart. Your boss claimed you were the most beautiful girl she had, and that you’d never been with a man before. Now I’ve been around the block a few times. I figured one of those things was true, but not both.” He smiled, revealing those too-white teeth again. “So you can drop the act. Really, I don’t mind.” 

Kikyo blinked. She shuffled backwards, out of the narrow entryway, and folded her arms across her chest. If she insisted on the truth, would he get angry? But if she lied and said she was experienced, wouldn’t he expect more of her? Her back hit the desk, and she jumped at the contact. 

“I’m sorry,” she said, though she wasn’t sure what she was sorry for. 

“It’s alright.” The man shrugged off his blazer. There were pit stains on his blue shirt. “Your boss can keep what I gave her. I’ll even throw in a tip, if you’re good.” 

He was suddenly close, too close. The smell of cinnamon was thick on his breath, masking a faint odor of cigarettes. His thumb and forefinger found her chin, forcing her to meet his eyes. He studied her face. 

“You really are a virgin, aren’t you?” 

She nodded mutely.

“Well then,” he said, hand sliding to her thigh. “Guess it’s my lucky day.” 

Kikyo managed to hold it together until he left. She even smiled and told him to have a nice trip back to wherever it was he was from. But as soon as the door closed and the full weight of the experience fell upon her, she burst into tears. 

The room didn’t look so different. There was a used condom on the nightstand now, next to a ten-thousand jenny bill. The comforter was twisted and wrinkled, wrought by grasping hands; towards its middle, partly hidden by a pink rose print, was a red stain. Turning from the scene, Kikyo staggered to the washroom. Marble walls amplified her sobs. 

She was still crying when her mother found her, wrapped in an oversized towel, crosslegged on the floor. Though she’d spent ten minutes in the shower trying to rid herself of the smell, it hung about her like incense—a thick, acrid scent, punctuated by cinnamon. Kikyo would hate the smell of cinnamon for the rest of her life. 

The ring lay discarded on the carpet. In a fit of rage she’d thrown it against the wall, leaving a pockmark in the plaster. Her mother looked from the ring to her puffy red face, sighed, and joined her on the floor. 

“I know,” she said, throwing an arm around her shoulder. “The first time is never easy. Next time will be better.” 

“There won’t be a next time.” Kikyo couldn’t keep her voice steady; each sob seemed to strangle her. “It hurt. I _hated_ it.” 

Her mother didn’t speak for a while. She could feel the woman’s nails through the towel, sinking into her upper back. 

“Do you think I do this work because I enjoy it?” she said at last. 

Kikyo sniffed. There was a familiar coldness in that voice; she’d said the wrong thing, and now she was going to get an earful. 

“I’ve fed and clothed you for thirteen years,” she said. “ _My_ first client was an old, fat man who gave me eight thousand jenny for my trouble. Do you know how much that mafioso paid for you?” 

Kikyo shook her head. 

“Half a million jenny.” She paused, as if to let the number sink in. “That will feed us for three months, if we’re frugal. And he _liked_ you, Kikyo. That means you’ll have his business next time he comes to the city—and the time after that. If you attract enough wealthy clients, you won’t have to solicit men on the street. You’ll be fed. You’ll be _safe_. You’d be stupid to throw that away. For heaven’s sake, how else do you expect to make a living?” 

Kikyo dropped her gaze to the floor. There _was_ another way to earn money in Meteor City—the mafia didn’t frequent the area for its cuisine—but she’d never killed before, and her mother would scoff at the suggestion. _Just because you know a little_ Nen _doesn’t mean you know how to fight,_ she’d say. _And just because you know how to fight doesn’t mean you have what takes to kill. You wouldn’t hurt a fly, Kikyo. Do you really think you could kill a man?_

She closed her eyes, saw Nick straining above her, each thrust a jolt of agony. She imagined cutting his throat with her paper fan, blood spurting from the artery, painting her face bright red. Her stomach turned. No, she wasn’t made for killing. But she wasn’t made for sex work, either. What was left? The pittance she earned pickpocketing wasn’t enough to live on. 

For the first time, Kikyo found herself wishing she hadn’t been born at all. 

“Kikyo?” 

“I don’t know,” she mumbled, defeated. “I don’t know what I want to do.” 

Fingers threaded her damp hair; her mother’s voice grew soft, cloying. “I’m going blind, honey. Someday soon I won’t be able to work anymore, and you’ll have to support us both. You understand that, don’t you?” 

Kikyo did. Fresh tears stung her eyes, but the burn between her legs was ebbing to an ache, at least. 

“It gets easier.” Her mother reached down to retrieve the copper ring. “You’ll see.” 

Six months later, Kikyo returned to the Hidden Treasure Hotel. It wasn’t the same room as the first time, though it was very nearly identical; there was a wood desk next to the mirror, and the comforter had the same floral print. By now she’d seen enough of these rooms to know they looked the same on the inside, but the view from the window was different—this one faced west, overlooking the marketplace. There weren’t many people outside (most of the shops closed before sunset), but she still heard voices through the glass. One was a woman’s voice; her mother negotiating, perhaps.

Following the loss of her virginity, the woman had allowed her one month of respite. Kikyo spent the time pickpocketing, hoping to prove she could steal enough to live off of, but she’d earned less than fifty thousand jenny. Most locals learned not to carry more than they were prepared to lose, and those who did were overconfident for a reason. One particularly quick man had caught her by the wrist and threatened to break both her arms. Without _Nen_ , she’d never have escaped; she struck him in the gut with her fan and fled as fast as her legs could carry her. 

Her second client hadn’t been as bad as the first. He was an older man (which she found intrinsically gross) but he was mild mannered, gentle. The third was younger, rougher; he left bruises that lingered for a week. The fourth was another mafioso; this one finished in ten minutes and spent the rest of the hour talking to her about firearm maintenance (apparently you needed something called a bore brush, which she thought was an apt name). 

Kikyo was waiting on her fifth now. As her mother continually reminded her, five clients in six months was nothing; most sex workers in Meteor City hit the streets every night to make rent. Thanks to her mother’s ability (and her connections, which were plentiful after fifteen years in the business), she earned more in one night than a typical girl earned in a month. 

Still, she despised it. 

There was pain every time—it felt like being probed with a spike of hot iron—and only one client, the old man, had seemed bothered by her discomfort. He’d asked her to use her mouth instead (which she found painless, but repulsive). After weeks of complaining, her mother had bought her some expensive lubricant; it didn’t eliminate the pain, but it helped a little. 

She toyed with the copper ring, sliding it on and off, watching herself change from a grown woman to a wiry girl and back again. Her client was late; maybe he wouldn’t show at all? 

It was a nice thought. Free for the night, she could go to the southside junkyard, kill a few hours playing kickball with the other kids. Most were younger than her—the littlest called her “Miss Kikyo” and followed her around like a duckling—but there was a boy her age she used to fancy. When she was twelve (just one year ago, though it seemed longer), she’d spend hours writing him love letters, using pen and paper filched from the northside market. Once a week, she’d slip them under the door of the tin shack he shared with his mother and four siblings. She never got a response. Eventually, she learned that no one in their family could read; they’d just been using the letters as kindling. At the time she’d been heartbroken, but she laughed at it now. Romance didn’t appeal to her anymore. Not much of anything did. 

Three sharp knocks ended her daydream. 

As she opened the door, her first thought was that he was an enormous man; well over six feet tall and built like an ox. Her second thought was that he reeked of alcohol—not uncommon in the city, but none of her clients had showed up drunk before. His white button-up was half undone, revealing a thatch of brown hair. He narrowed his eyes. 

“You Kara?” 

She nodded; he shoved his way past her, nearly elbowing her face in the process. Evidently not in the mood to waste time, he made straight for the bed. The wood frame creaked under his bulk. 

“Well?” He began fumbling with the buckle on his belt. “You comin over here or what?” 

Kikyo closed the door. Her third client had been of the same ilk—rude, aggressive, young—but he’d at least been sober. Did drunk men take longer to come? She hoped not, especially considering the size of the bulge in this one’s pants. She wasn’t sure she could endure more than a few minutes of intercourse with _that_.

“Sorry to make you wait,” she said, rushing to his side. “Do you want me to undress myself or do you want to—”

A hand snapped up, grabbing her by the hair. He yanked her forward, so they were face to face; the stench of his breath was enough to make her gag. 

“You ever screamed during sex before?” He spoke slowly, as if trying not to slur his speech. “I mean really scream, not just moan like the whore you are.” 

Heart hammering, Kikyo tried to pull back, but his arm might as well have been made of iron. She strained to look over his shoulder, where a darkling sky peered through a square window. It was closed. Would her mother hear her if she called for help? Would anyone? 

He yanked again, forcing her to straighten. “Answer me.” 

“No.”

“No? Bet it wouldn’t take much.” His hand slipped beneath her dress; she tilted her hips back to discourage the contact. “You strike me as a screamer, Kara.” 

“Please. Just let go of my—” 

“You ever been fucked in the ass?”

Her nose wrinkled in disgust. How had this man made it through her mother’s screening? The woman always briefed her clients ahead of time, which meant he’d signed a contract which explicitly excluded anal. _We should add a clause about showing up drunk. Not that they’d bother reading it.  
_  
“Hey now, don’t look sour.” His eyes drifted to the vial of oil on the nightstand. “You’re the one who brought the lube. Not that we’ll be usin’ any.” The hand between her legs abandoned its course, reaching around to grab her ass instead; his middle finger slid against her anus. “I like to fuck raw, you understand. Feels better that way.” 

It was then Kikyo realized that this man was going to hurt her. This in itself was nothing new—her previous clients had hurt her, too—but there was a difference of magnitude and intention. 

This man was going to hurt her _a lot_ , and he was going to do it _on purpose_. 

Her eyes darted from the nightstand, where the lube sat beside a stack of condoms, to the desk, where she’d left her street clothes. Even if she’d brought it along, her fan would’ve been out of reach, but she’d left the thing with her mother, anyway. There wasn’t much else in the room—a fountain pen and notepad on the desk, a table lamp, a potted plant, the mirror. 

What could she do? If she’d been in a better state of mind, she might have intimidated him with _Ren_. As it was, she couldn’t even focus enough to contain her aura; it was rushing away in all directions, repelled by the force of her fear. 

Her eyes screwed shut. She cried out, partly from pain (the man’s finger was now halfway inside her), partly from the hopelessness of it all. Hands clasped together, she was preparing to plead for mercy when she remembered the copper ring. 

Of course. This man saw the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen. All she had to do was remove it and she’d be a girl again. 

“Wait,” she gasped, ripping off the ring. “Look. Look at me!” 

There was a pause. The finger slipped out of her; the grip on her hair slackened. He blinked, brows drawn together in confusion. 

She held up the ring. “This is magic. It makes me look older than I am. Please.” Her voice cracked. “Please, don’t do this. I’m only thirteen.” 

A hand dropped to her chest, as if to confirm the breasts had vanished. For a moment, Kikyo thought she was saved; the man seemed troubled by the change. Then a grin spread across his face, the gleam returned to his eye, and her hope died like a doused flame. 

“That’s a neat trick. But I paid a quarter million jenny for you, and I’m gonna fuck you whatever you look like. Besides,” he licked his lips, “I’ve had younger than you before.” 

Kikyo said nothing; there was nothing more to say. This man was going to rape her until the hour was up, and then he was going to leave her bruised and bleeding, careless as the day he was born. His pockets would be a little lighter, perhaps, but that was no trouble for a man of his rank. Next week (or maybe later this week, depending on his appetite), he’d find a different girl and rape her, too. He would never face a consequence. Why would he? He was a wealthy man, and she was just a whore. 

Kikyo was trembling all over. Something was stirring in her, bubbling forth from her core; no longer leaking away, her aura seemed drawn to her by a strange magnetism. It wasn’t until her _Ren_ burst forth, flooding the room from floor to ceiling, that she identified the feeling. 

She was furious. 

Not just with this man, but with all of her clients. For taking advantage of her poverty, taking their pleasure at the expense of her pain. She was furious with the hotel staff for looking the other way—after four times, surely someone had heard her cries. She was furious with her mother, who’d birthed her into a miserable world and demanded she earn her keep. She was furious with everyone and everything that led her to this time, this place, this room. 

The man withdrew his hands. His eyes had gone wide, his mouth slack; the effect was one of pure, dumb terror. 

“That’s right,” she hissed. “Don’t touch me. Don’t you ever touch me again.” 

Nodding profusely, he scrambled back from the edge of the bed. His dick, still protruding from his unzipped pants, had gone pale and limp. 

Kikyo splayed her hand to the side, reaching out with tendrils of aura; the fountain pen zipped into her palm. Her fingers closed around it. 

It was over in three minutes. 

Though it had been knocked to the floor, the lamp was still glowing, its glass bulb intact. The gilded mirror was shattered. Blood soaked the bed, blotting out a thicket of roses; at the centre of the stain lay the exsanguinated corpse, its chest and neck dotted with puncture wounds. One eye had been gouged from its socket. 

Kikyo couldn’t stop staring at the body. She kept waiting for horror to descend upon her, to feel a sudden revulsion at the sight, but the feeling never came. Again and again, she saw the light fade from that singular gray eye—alive one minute, dead the next, how spectacular, how strange!—and felt no remorse. The man had deserved to die, so she was justified in feeling righteous, but what she felt now surpassed righteousness. 

She felt buoyant. Euphoric. Powerful. 

Yes, that was it. Standing over the bed, blood dripping from the pen in her hand, Kikyo felt _powerful_. 

A knock came to the door. Her gaze shifted toward the sound, but she didn’t move or speak. Knocking was only a courtesy, anyway; her mother always kept an extra key, and if it wasn’t her mother, then it was a member of the hotel staff. 

There was a low _shunk_ of a key sliding into the keyhole. Her grip tightened around the pen. A witness would complicate things; she’d have to kill them, too. Could she? The dead man had landed more than a few blows (she was pretty sure her arm was broken) but a fresh surge of adrenaline masked the pain. Yes, she could kill again, if she had to. 

The door swung inward. 

She was almost disappointed to see her mother. 

The woman removed her sunglasses, looked between Kikyo and the corpse. Her eyes widened with disbelief. “You killed him?” 

Kikyo nodded. “It was easy," she said. "I want to do it again.” 

Disbelief morphed into something else; her mother seemed suddenly pensive. 

“You can’t leave looking like that, people will stare. Go clean yourself up. After that, we can...” She stopped, seeming to choose her next words carefully. “Well. We’ll talk about it, at least.” 

Exhausted, bloodied, her left arm screaming in pain, Kikyo couldn’t help but smile. “Yes, Mother.” 

The lamplight caught a glint of copper; the ring, forgotten in the fray. As she walked to the washroom, Kikyo kicked it under the bed. 

No matter what her mother decided, she would never let a man hurt her like that again.

* * *

Save the rattle of Milluki’s breath, the dungeon was silent. Kikyo could feel rage welling up inside her, bloodlust the likes of which she hadn’t felt in fifteen years. For Gotoh’s sake she withheld her _Ren_ , hands balled into tight fists. 

“Stay with Milluki,” she said. Her voice clipped, controlled. “I need to speak with my husband.” 


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am posting this chapter and the epilogue together, for reasons I think will become obvious when you read on. 
> 
> Thanks again all for your comments and kudos! I hope you enjoy the end of the fic.

The room was located two floors up from the dungeon, in the east wing of the mansion. Normally it would take her a few minutes to walk there; running like she was—her _Ren_ building with each step, the pressure almost more than she could bear—Kikyo arrived at the double-leaf doors in less than thirty seconds. 

The doors had no lock, but were weighted so that even Kikyo had to strain to open them. In her current mood she welcomed the challenge, throwing her full weight against the stone; they flung inward, nearly striking the adjacent walls. 

A cool draft assailed her, cutting through her thin kimono. Silva preferred temperatures bordering on arctic, and this was his private chamber—she’d caught glimpses of its interior on several occasions, but she’d never been inside before. 

It was a small room. Not including Silva’s dog—a hulking beast that took up half the floorspace—there were four figures within. 

The first was Silva, reclining on a pile of cushions; these were arranged on a metal dais that looked like some sort of futuristic casket. The second and third were butlers, lingering nearby; one was open-mouthed, paused in the act of talking with his master. The last was Illumi. 

The boy stood facing the men, his stance wide, as if he feared losing his balance. His hair (cropped short again, at Kikyo’s behest) stuck up in all directions. Bony shoulders poked through a gray shirt—too large for him, but not large enough to cover his nakedness. He was bare from the waist down. 

When she saw the blood (so much blood, red streaks down the backs of his thighs, _oh god_ ) Kikyo could no longer contain her _Ren_. Something ruptured within her, rushing forth unbridled, enough to make Silva flinch. Illumi was knocked prone. The dog whined, scrambling in the direction of its master; whether it wanted to protect Silva, or for Silva to protect it, Kikyo neither knew nor cared. 

“Which one of you did it?” she hissed, stalking toward the men. “Which one of you spineless, sniveling miscreants raped my son?” 

One butler—a blond man who’d been with the family as long as she had—started to speak, but Silva cut him off.

“They both participated. But they were following _my_ orders, so if you have a problem with—”

Kikyo whipped out her fan. In one stroke, she beheaded both men; there was a wet crunch as their skulls splintered on the metal floor. 

A breath later the bodies crumpled, spurting blood from their severed necks. The spatter caught Silva in the face. He scowled.  
  
“Was that necessary?” 

She wheeled on him, raising the fan to strike, but she was too slow; he caught her by the wrist. For a flash, Silva looked genuinely hurt—she’d never attacked him, not in a decade of marriage—but the look was gone as quickly as it came.

“Calm down,” he snapped. “You are overreacting.” 

“ _Overreacting?_ ” Kikyo threw back her head and laughed; a shrill, mirthless sound. “You watched those men _rape_ our _son!_ ” 

“And do you know why I did it?” Silva yanked her down by the wrist (he was still seated; she evidently wasn’t worth the effort of standing). “Did you take one second to think about _why?_ Or did you just burst in here and kill two of my best men based on—what? Something that servant said?” 

“If you seriously think I care about your _reason_ for—”

“Let me talk.” He squeezed; any harder and her wrist would break. “Just let me explain, Kikyo.” 

She twisted her arm, trying to free herself to no avail. The dog was snarling at her, black eyes full of dumb malice. 

She had no choice but to listen. 

“We teach our children to endure all kinds of torture. If Illumi is ever at the mercy of one of our enemies...if they are willing to electrocute him, beat him, pull out his fingernails, do you really think they’ll balk at raping him?”

“It doesn’t matter,” she spat. “If he’s strong enough, his enemies won’t get the chance—I’ve never been caught, and neither have you.” A thought struck her; she lowered her voice. “Did Zeno do this to you, Silva?” 

“What? No. I’ve told you a hundred times—I don’t copy my father’s training regimen, nor did he copy his father’s. Some level of innovation is expected.” 

“Innovation?” Her shout echoed on steel walls. “Oh, that’s a lie and you know it. You weren’t trying to train our son. This was never about Illumi!” 

The man’s eyebrows disappeared into his hair. “Not about Illumi? Well by all means, Kikyo, tell me what this is about. Enlighten me.” 

“This is about punishing me.” 

He snorted. 

“You’re too much of a coward to make me stop the pills, so you decided to hurt me through my son. Why else would you let Gotoh leave? You knew he’d come straight to me.” 

“Not everything is about you, Kikyo.” He released her wrist, tossing it away. “I did what I did with Illumi’s best interests at heart. He’s come a long way since the first time—”

“The first time? You’re telling me you’ve done this before?” 

“Yes, and his endurance has—”

“Shut up.” Her head was pounding, blood roaring in her ears. It took all her restraint not to lash out a second time; there would be no use in a broken arm. “This doesn’t happen again.” 

“Or what?” he scoffed. “You’ve already refused me another child. What, exactly, do you plan to threaten me with?” 

Kikyo leaned in close, close enough to kiss. Her voice fell to a whisper. “I will kill our sons. I will kill myself. I will leave you with _nothing_ to show for these last ten years.” She bared her teeth, more snarl than smile. “Rape some other woman’s children to your heart’s content, but I will have no part in it.” 

With the visor, she could see the heat drain from Silva’s face. 

“Fine.” He rose to his feet. “You win, Kikyo. But I have one condition.” 

_Of course_. “No more pills.” 

He nodded. “Not until Grandfather confirms you’ve given me an heir.” Bringing his thumb to his canine tooth, Silva pierced the calloused flesh; a bead of blood appeared, darker than the spatter on his face. He stuck out his hand. “Do you accept those terms?” 

Kikyo hesitated. The future unspooled before her: a procession of pregnancies, most, perhaps all, ending in miscarriage. She would be forced to endure regular intercourse with the man who ordered the rape of her child (for that’s all Silva was to her now, all he would ever be). It was a terrible fate, but what was the alternative? She looked back at Illumi, crosslegged on the floor. At some point he’d moved to dress himself—he wore jeans and white sneakers—but he was still as death now. Even his eyes were motionless, fixed on the foot of the dais, his face a study in blankness. 

If she left, she would be entitled to nothing; the Zoldyck elders had made certain of that. At eighteen she’d been young, naïve, unable to imagine a future which included divorce. Now she had no claim to the Zoldyck fortune, no hope of securing custody for her children—at least not by legal means.

Could she do so covertly? She imagined fleeing the country, raising the boys alone. They would be free, and they wouldn’t be hungry—even if Silva blacklisted her name (as he surely would), there was always work for an assassin of her caliber. But they could never stay in one place for long; the Zoldycks had eyes all over the world, and Silva would never stop looking for her. If caught, she’d be a prisoner. He would take her visor, confine her to the bedroom, to darkness. Or maybe he’d keep her in the dungeon, chained to the wall, forced to listen to the rape of her children—all because she betrayed him, all to spite her. 

Her eyes squeezed shut. Silva was many things, but he was also a man of his word. If she upheld her end of the bargain, there would be no more sexual abuse, at least not for her sons. 

Despite everything, staying was best for them. 

Kikyo dipped a nail into the pad of her thumb. She extended her hand, pressed the wound against Silva’s. 

“Good.” He seemed to relax. “That’s settled, then.” 

Ignoring him, she turned to her son. The dog sniffed her heels as she passed but made no move to bite. 

“Illu?” She kneeled before the boy. “Illu, you’re all done today, okay honey?”

He didn’t acknowledge her. It was as if she wasn’t there. 

“Illu?” she repeated, setting a hand on his shoulder. He jumped at the touch, eyes coming into focus; the fear in those eyes broke her heart. “It’s just me, Illumi. It’s Mama.” She grasped his hand, colder and so much smaller than her own. “I want you to come with me now.” 

Illumi’s gaze shifted to his father, silently asking permission. Though she didn’t look, Silva must have nodded, for the boy began struggling to his feet. 

“That’s it,” she cooed. A red stain was forming on the seat of his pants, and her gut wrenched at the sight. “Let’s get you clean, hey? Then you can take a nice long rest.” 

Illumi released her hand; he spoke so softly she almost didn’t hear. “Yes, Mother.” 

Her son’s room was not unlike the master bedroom: stone walls affixed with yellow lanterns, a tall armoire, a four poster bed. There were no windows, which suited her fine; she’d removed her visor once the shower started running. Crying was easier that way. 

She had offered assistance, but Illumi declined—he was almost ten, he reminded her, and plenty capable of washing himself. Since before Milluki was born, he’d had his own room (and attached washroom); very self sufficient, her Illu. Sometimes she forgot just how young he was, nearly four years younger than she’d been when she lost her virginity.

Kikyo pressed her palms into her eyes. How could she not have seen it? Ever since he returned from that botched job—the one where he’d killed a client's daughter—Illumi had been different. Quieter. There was a dazed look about him, distant and unfocused, like his mind was somewhere else. 

The signs were there, she just hadn’t wanted to see them. 

Kikyo had spent most of her childhood resenting her own weaknesses. If she’d been stronger, better with _Nen_ —a killer raised from birth, not a killer by circumstance—she could’ve saved herself so much pain. Or at least that’s what she’d always thought; now she wasn’t so sure. Her son suffered the same fate, after all, despite years of training. 

Was she any better than her own mother? Was she worse? The woman had pushed her into sex work out of need; Illumi’s rape had been pointless, cruelty for cruelty’s sake. 

The shower stopped. 

Kikyo wiped her face on her sleeve, donned the visor. Soon the washroom door swung open; Illumi had changed into pajamas, flannel pants and an old T-shirt, but his expression was much the same. A lifeless look, nothing behind the eyes. 

She forced a smile. “Feeling better?” 

He shrugged and shuffled over. Climbing into bed, he left a buffer of space between them, as if he were reluctant to touch her. 

“Am I in trouble?” he asked. 

“Oh honey, no.” The bed creaked as she moved closer. “None of this is your fault.” 

Illumi pulled his knees to his chest. She placed a hand on his shoulder, and he did not flinch this time. 

“Do you understand what those men did to you?” 

He shrugged again. “Father told me about sex, if that’s what you mean.” 

“It’s not sex if you don’t want it, honey.” 

“I know. Father told me about rape, too.” His gaze flicked to her visor, but dropped to the floor just as quickly. “I don’t get why you’re so mad. The needles hurt worse. The prod hurts worse, too.”

Softly, she began to stroke his back. “I’m not mad at you, Illu. But it’s not about pain. What those men did to you…” _No, that’s not right_. “What your father made those men do,” she amended, “it wasn’t to help you.” 

“That’s not what he told me.” 

“Yes, well.” She sniffed. “Not everything your father says is true.” 

There was a lull. A draft ruffled the turquoise canopy; a faucet dripped in the washroom. Kikyo was searching for something more to say when Illumi spoke again. 

“Why doesn’t Father want me to be the heir?” 

_Oh._ Of course he’d overheard. He was sitting ten feet away when Silva made his demands, and the man hadn’t been speaking quietly. 

They hadn’t taught Illumi about _Nen_ yet, though his first lessons were coming soon. Explaining what aura was would take time; explaining that he had the wrong _kind_ of aura would make him resent his abilities before they had a chance to develop. She bit her lip. Better to feign ignorance than invent a lie. 

“I don’t know,” she said. “That’s a question for your father.” 

The boy fell silent again, resting his chin on his knees. She kept stroking his back, hoping the touch brought some small comfort. 

Suddenly he turned to her, and she was struck by the look on his face—it was so much like her own that (were it not for the short hair) she might’ve been nine years old again, looking in a mirror. No wonder Silva never favored the boy; there was no trace of her husband in that face. 

“I’m tired,” he said. “I wanna sleep now.” 

“Of course, honey. You go right ahead.” 

Illumi crawled past her, situated himself among the pillows. Not bothering with the blanket, he shut his eyes and appeared to sleep.

Kikyo stood. Part of her wanted to stay, to console him if he woke from unpleasant dreams, but a wiser part knew he would not accept her comfort. Hers was the hand that held the prod, that punished him when the butlers demurred. Silva rarely assumed such a direct role—his few strikes were calculated, surgical. 

She was the villain; her husband had made certain of that. 

One by one, the yellow lanterns winked out. As her visor adjusted, she saw Illumi’s eyes open, watching her in the dark. 

“Sleep well, Illu,” she whispered. “Mama loves you.”  
  


* * *

  
A body straining above her. A headboard knocking against stone. She kept her hands at her sides, twisted in the sheets. If there was pain, it did not show on her face.

A hand on her breast now, a mouth on her neck. Whispers of love she pretended not to hear. These whispers melded with cries from the nursery—Kalluto fussing again. She gave the sound little thought, having long ago quelled the impulse to comfort her children.

Then, the finale: he reared back, shuddering against her. Something warm slid down her belly. Perplexed, Kikyo reached down; what her fingers found was wet and sticky. 

“You didn’t come inside me,” she observed. 

“Didn’t need to.” Silva rolled off, collapsing beside her. Though she saw nothing (the bedroom was black as it always was) she could hear the smile in his voice. “Grandfather tested Killua today.” 

He paused, as if waiting for her reaction, but she didn’t take the bait. 

“The boy’s a transmuter, the most powerful transmuter our family’s ever seen.” A hand cupped her cheek, turning her face to the side. “And he wouldn’t exist without you, Kikyo.” 

For a beat, she said nothing. She wasn’t surprised—Killua’s progress had dwarfed that of his brothers—but it was surreal hearing the words from her husband’s mouth. After five pregnancies and six miscarriages, she’d just assumed her suffering would go on forever. 

“I’m glad,” she said at last. “I always knew it would be Kil.” 

“Me, too. The moment he was born, I knew.” 

Kikyo did not speak again. Silva soon retreated to his side of the bed, and within minutes he was sleeping; sex always knocked him out. 

Her hands returned to her belly, brushing across a forest of stretch marks. She touched the pool of semen, still drying in her navel, and supposed she should feel relieved—but as she stared into the pitch dark, listening to the rumble of her husband’s snores, she felt nothing at all. 


	7. Epilogue

“What’s your favorite color?” 

Illumi sighed, pressing his face into the pillow. The honeymoon had been pleasant so far—they’d spent most of the week in bed, and very little of that time asleep—but this morning his new husband had decided they needed to “get to know each other,” whatever that was supposed to mean. He suspected this scheme was specifically designed to annoy him (and if that was the case, it was working). 

“Why does it matter?” he asked. 

Hisoka reached out, tucked a lock of hair behind his ear. “What if I want to buy you clothes for your birthday? I need to know what colour to get.” 

“I am perfectly capable of buying my own clothes.” 

“Your wardrobe suggests otherwise—lest we forget the flame sweatpants.” 

Illumi frowned. “I like flames.” 

“That’s beside the point, dear Illu.” He began to stroke Illumi’s head, white fingers threading black hair. “When is your birthday, anyway?”

“The first of January.” 

“A new year’s baby! How exciting. Mine is June sixth.” 

“I distinctly did not ask.” 

Hisoka clucked his tongue. “Don’t be rude. I’m expecting a present from you next year.” 

Illumi couldn’t begin to fathom what Hisoka would want for his birthday. A new deck of cards? A pack of gum? He consoled himself with the knowledge that the magician would be dead well before June, be it by Chrollo Lucilfer’s hand or his own. 

Not one to be dissuaded by a lack of enthusiasm, Hisoka pressed on. “What’s your favorite food?” 

“I will eat whatever is available.” 

“That’s not what I asked.” 

Illumi cracked an eye. Perhaps if he answered quickly enough, the man would run out of questions. “Ice cream.” 

“A good choice. What flavor?”   
  
“Vanilla.” 

“Ah, I’m partial to strawberry myself.” He drummed his fingers on Illumi’s skull. “Favorite drink? Wait—I know that one. Whiskey, right?” 

Illumi hummed his affirmation. 

“Do you know mine?” 

“Sunset daiquiri.” 

“Oh, Illu.” He shifted, pushing a knee between Illumi’s thighs. “You _do_ care.”

Though they’d already had sex once that morning, Illumi was eager to postpone the most boring interrogation of his life by any means necessary. He slipped a hand beneath the sheets, palmed Hisoka’s groin. 

“Ah-ah!” There was a tug at his hair. “I see what you’re doing, you insatiable little minx. We aren’t done yet.” 

Illumi huffed and withdrew his hand.

“That’s better. Now where was I?” He tilted his head back, as if searching the stucco ceiling. “Ah! Here’s a good one. How old were you when you first killed a person?” 

“Five.”

“Five?” 

“That’s right.” 

Hisoka laughed. “And I thought I started early. You’ve got me beat by eight years, Illu.” 

“You kill for pleasure. I am a career assassin.” 

“Fair enough.” His eyes were bright and curious. “Do you remember what it was like?” 

“Not really. It was at Heaven’s Arena. The crowd was noisy, it was over quickly.” 

“I see.” 

There were footsteps in the suite above them. Wind gusted outside, a low howl beneath the hum of the air conditioning. Illumi glanced out the sliding glass door; he could see the balcony’s white railing, but not much else. A sandstorm had hit last night (not uncommon in Glam Gas Land), and by the looks of things it wasn’t through with the city yet. 

A finger traced Illumi’s lips, drawing his attention back to the man before him.

“Who was your first kiss? And don’t say it was me.” The finger slid to Illumi’s chin. “You weren’t that clueless when we first met.”

Illumi wasn’t sure if that was supposed to be a compliment, but he didn’t take it as one. “I don’t remember her name. She was a target.” 

“A target?” Hisoka arched an eyebrow. “Forbidden love?” 

“Hardly. I tracked her to a party. I could tell she was attracted to me—or the form I wore, at any rate.” His gaze flicked to the glass door, to the brown haze outside. “She kissed me in the hotel elevator. I was going to wait till we got to the room, but I thought she was trying to hurt me, so I killed her right there.” A needle in each temple, painless, quick; she’d dropped to the floor, leaving lipstick smeared on Illumi’s mouth. 

The hand on his head began to move again—slow, smooth strokes. “How old were you then?” 

“Sixteen.” 

“Ah, I’ve got you beat this time. I had my first kiss at thirteen. A nice girl. Pretty, if a bit dull.” 

Illumi didn’t reply; he wasn’t interested in Hisoka’s romantic history. 

“Have you ever slept with a target?” 

“No,” said Illumi, “and you’ve asked me that before.” 

“Yes, but that was nearly a year ago. Circumstances change.” 

The air conditioning switched off, leaving the room in abrupt silence. 

Given the nature of the last two questions, the next one shouldn’t have been a surprise. It was a wonder Hisoka hadn’t asked sooner, considering his obsession with all things sexual and general disregard for privacy. Still, it struck him like a fist in the chest. 

“When did you lose your virginity?” 

Heat rushed to Illumi’s face. Though he could slow the spike in his heartbeat, he couldn’t hide his immediate reaction, the way his body stiffened as if bracing for a blow.

He’d never told anyone. The memory itself was vague, a formless shape in the void where he buried most of his childhood. But he remembered his mother’s _Ren_ , how it turned his insides to ice; he remembered her scream, blood on a cold floor; he remembered her weeping when she thought no one could hear. 

Illumi shut his eyes. He’d waited too long to answer—if Hisoka didn’t know something was wrong before, he surely knew now. But what could he say? He was a bad liar. Perhaps if he just refused— 

“Illu.” Hisoka’s voice was unusually soft. “I should’ve known better. You don’t have to—” 

“I was eight.” 

The hand on his head grew still. There was a muted clatter from the wall; someone in the adjacent suite putting dishes away. 

Illumi fixed his gaze on the middle of Hisoka’s chest, watching it expand with each breath. He couldn’t bring himself to look at his face. 

“Father told me it was part of my training,” he said. “I didn’t know any better.” 

He could almost hear the gears turning in Hisoka’s head. “Then it was your father who…?” 

“No.” Illumi’s throat clicked as he swallowed. “No, he made the butlers do it.” 

The air conditioning kicked on again. They lay listening to it hum for a while, motionless in the centre of the king sized bed. Hisoka did not offer any platitudes, and for that Illumi was grateful. 

Finally, there was movement—white sheets tossed aside, mattress springs squealing as Hisoka leapt to his feet. 

Illumi sat upright. Now crouched near the edge of the room, Hisoka was sifting through a pink suitcase. After a moment, he rose with an armful of clothes and tossed it onto the bed. He pursed his lips, picked a pink undershirt out of the pile, and slipped it over his head. 

“What are you doing?” 

“What does it look like?” Hisoka sniffed a pair of white pants, made a face, threw the garment aside. 

“It looks like you’re getting dressed.” 

“That’s right.” 

He sniffed another pair of white pants, shrugged, pulled them on. 

Illumi watched in silence, trying to ignore the twinge in his gut. Perhaps he’d been wrong to confide in Hisoka—the magician had the emotional intelligence of a foxbear—but was he really going to leave with eight days left in their honeymoon? 

Hisoka shimmied his foot into a narrow boot, twisting the heel into the carpet. Using the same tone in which one might announce a trip to the grocery store, he said, “I’m going to kill your father.”

Illumi blinked. “Now?” 

Hands growing pink with _Bungee Gum,_ Hisoka approached the open vanity. He started combing fingers through his hair, coaxing it into his preferred style. “There’s no time like the present.” 

“What about Chrollo?” 

“I can be in Padokia tonight if I take an airship. I’ll be back here in three days, four at the latest.” Evidently satisfied with his hair, Hisoka turned around. “We’ll have plenty of time to finish our honeymoon before my date at the arena.” 

Illumi absorbed this without comment. The twinge in his gut was gone, but he felt strangely dizzy now. Hisoka was threatening the head of his family. Shouldn’t he do something? A year ago, he’d have killed the magician for less; now, watching him approach the door of the suite, Illumi didn’t know what to do.

As if sensing his thoughts, Hisoka halted. He turned, seemed to search his face. “Aren’t you going to try and stop me?” 

Illumi’s gaze fell into his lap. He traced the trail of marks on his inner thigh—lovebites, Hisoka called them—memories of a hot mouth, of pleasure approaching delirium. He looked up then, drawn to the matching bruises on Hisoka’s neck (he always gave as good as he got, relishing the pulse under his teeth, the skin salty on his tongue).

“No,” he said. “I don’t think I am.” 

Hisoka nodded and left the room. 


End file.
